IRLF 


MM    757 


THE 


VISION  OF  CORTES, 


OTIIKR  POEMS. 


BY  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS,  J*. 


Charleston: 

JAMES  8.  DUROE8,  44  QTTE  EN-STREET. 

1829. 


t      |          '* 


TO 

JAMES  L,.  PETIGRU, 

This  volume,  the  result  of  a  few  idle  hours  in 
the  intervals  of  business,  is  respectfully  mayribed 

fcy 

THE  AUTHOR. 


912 


1     •••>   •(     "    I   v.    .' 


THE 

VISION  OF  CORTES. 


A  POEM. 


If  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 

The  waving  boughs  with  fury  ncathe, 
Th«  nuimy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 
And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals. 
BTEOH— 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  following  Poem  was  originally  introduced 
in  one  of  larger  dimensions  on  the  subject  of  the 
Incas,  which  I  was  wise  enough  to  destroy.  How 
far  I  may  have  erred  in  permitting  the  following 
fragment  (for  it  is  little  more)  to  escape  the  same 
fate,  the  reader,  and  not  myself,  will  determiner 


THE 

VISION  OF  CORTES. 


1. 

ONCE,  and  the  gallant  sword  of  Spain, 

Oppos'd  the  fierce  invader, 
Ere,  in  the  Gothic(l)  Roderick's  reign* 

Her  own  base  son(2)  bctray'd  her: 
When  freemen  stood  on  hill  and  glade. 

And  blood  gush'd  forth  from  fountains, 
Where,  gallant  hearts,  her  ramparts  made, 

As  firm  as  her  own  mountains! 
And,  conquerors  of  the  tawnj  Moor, 
They  seek  new  countries  to  explore; 
Led  by  the  luckless  Genoese, 
To  lands,  beyond  undreampt-of-seas, 
Lords  of  the  soil  at  home,  the  brave, 
With  idle  weapon*,  crossM  the  wave, 
Sanguine  to  reap  in  foreign  lands, 
Full  guerdon  for  their  steel-clad  bands; 
While  high,  to  lead  the  way,  they  rear'£ 
The  blessed  cross,  nor  danger  fcai'd, 


8  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

While,  base  enthusiasts,  it  came, 
A  beacon  light  to  death  and  flame. (3) 

II. 

The  chieftain  slumber'd  in  his  tent, 

Thro*  the  deep  midnight  hour, 
Enfeebled,  for  his  strength  was  spent 

In  deeds  of  warlike  power — 
The  leader  of  the  Spanish  might, 

Where  sleep  had  stilly  bound  him, 
Lay,  ready  nrni'd  for  sudden  fight, 

But  with  no  guard  around  him. 
'Twas  he,  that  dared  'gainst  free-born  foe, 
To  win  the  wealth  of  Mexico! 
On  Chalco's  height,  Cholula's  wall, 
Ordain'd  not  by  his  foe  to  fall, 
The  brave  barbarian  paused,  to  scan 
The  features  of  the  giant  man; 
And,  in  his  deeds  of  strength,  his  blade, 
The  lion-heart,  that  ne'er  afraid, 
Lcap'd  onward;  and  where'er  he  flew, 
Bore  unresisting  Fate,  to  da 
The  savage  purpose  of  a  breast, 
Where  human  feelings  lay,  reprcst, 
Believed,  as  frighted  back,  he  ran, 
Some  demon  fill'd  the  form  of  man. 


The  Vision  of  Cortes. 
III. 

He  had  been  toiling  thro*  the  day — 

And,  tho'  victory  crown'd  him, 
1  et,  once  its  palm  wos  torn  away, 

As  the  fight  thicken'd  round  him — 
Onward,  by  Guatimozin(4)  led, 

Like  gath'iing  clouds  at  even, 
The  children  of  the  bright  sun(o)  sped, 

To  win  the  wealth  of  Heaven! 
At  once,  the  splendors  of  thy  name, 
Brave  Cortes,  darken'd  as  they  came; 
One  moment,  sunk  thy  warriors  back, 
Before  the  torrent's  thundering  track; 
One  moment  did  thine  eagle  bend 
His  sunward  gaze,  r.nd  downward  tend; 
And  thou — thy  warrior  steed  o'erthrown, 
A  victim,  :mid  the  crowd  alone, 
Thy  soldiers  lost,  and  thine  own  blood, 
Forth  streaming,  in  impetuous  flood, 
Not  even  the  chance  remains  to  flee- 
But  that  ic  not  a  thought  for  thee.(6) 

i 
IV. 

yow  does  their  war-drum  sound  aJoud, 

Upon  their  highest  tower, 
Since  he,  their  god  of  war,(7)  had  bow 'd 

The  invader  to  their  power. 


10  The  Viswii  of  Cortes. 

How  rich  the  sacrifice  must  be, 
Oh  freedom,  at  thy  altar  shrine, 
Where'er  thy  blessed  stars  may  shine, 
Of  tyrants'  instruments  to  thee! 
Once  more,  the  elated  savage  dream* 

Of"  life,  laud,  love  and  freedom; 
And  with  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
Bids  their  young  monarch  lead  'era. 
Exulting,  came  their  numbers  on, 
To  hail  the  triumph,  more  than  won, 
Since  he,  the  Spanish  chief,  had  bled, 
And  they,  the  Invincible,  had  fled! 
He  too,  their  nation's  direst  foe, 
Whoso  very  presence  augur 'd  woe— 
Within  their  pow'r — 0 !  what  must  be 
The  living  throb  within  the  veins 
Of  men,  who  long  inured  to  chains, 
Now  strike  at  last  for  liberty. 
The  aspect  of  despair  is  cast, 
The  slave  is  free — i»  free  at  last, 
And  like  the  unprisoned  eagle,  gaining 
The  lost  ascent  of  clouds,  where,  straining 
Each  nervous  pinion  in  the  flight, 
He  bears  him  to  the  monarch  light, 
Freedom's  own  emblem,  made  for  all, 
Und/m'd  by  cloud,  unbent  by  thrall— 
The  native  light,  so  oft  adored 
In  earlier  hours,  at  last  restored. 


The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

V. 

Is  this  the  sole  reward  of  toil — 

The  long  tried  toil  of  skill  and  power, 
Arrested,  in  its  marrh  to  spoil, 

With  the  short  conflict  of  an  hour! 
Is  there  no  pride  of  nation — none 

Of  all  that  chivalry,  that  stood, 
Till  life  was  lost,  or  triumph  won, 

While  all  the  Guadalate  ran  blood! 
Shall  men,  who  drove  tho  sable  Moor, 
Forever,  from  their  native  shore, 
Taught  but  to  conquer  or  to  die, 
And  in  a  school  so  fell  and  rife, 
Forget  their  creed  and  backward  fly? 
That  creed,  which  gives,  in  holy  strife 
A  future  for  a  present  life; 
And  takes  the  cloud  that  dims  our  even, 
To  leave  to  truth,  its  own  bright  Heaven, 
LnveiPd  in  its  eternal  light, 
Before  Mie  true  believer's  sight— 
Where  Houris'  gmile  and  raptures  etrar, 
To  win  the  mortal  coil  away — 
Shall  men  thus  taught  to  die,  to  dare 
The  worst  of  deaths,  with  hope  to  share 
That  heaven  of  heavens,  which  ever  beama 
Upon  tae  enthusiast's  life  of  dreamt. 


The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

Thus  fly  a  savage  race  before, 

AN  hen  Hruven  itself  upon  them  streams — 

Lose  former  fame,  and  win  no  more? 

VI. 

Where  are  these  thoughts  to  wring  them  now, 

Where  are  the  early  hopes  that  fed  them, 
The  Cross's  light  upon  each  blow, 

That,  like  a  tiro  from  heav'n,  once  led  them? 
Dream  they,  before  a  conquering  foe, 

To  fly  successful,  o'er  the  waters, 
Where,  trembling  with  expecting  glow, 

Sit  Spain's  own  sunny  daughters? 
DUdain  wati  in  thn»  chieftain's  eye. 
Beyond  the  ire  of  battle  high, 
And,  while  his  hoarse  voice  rung  around, 
More  stirring  than  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Bidding  the  brave  again  unito 
In  battle,  with  the  unequal  fight, 
Upon  his  lip,  scorn  smiling  played, 
Derisive,  of  the  tools  he  made; 
And  thus  he  spake,  when,  all  in  vain 
He  would  renew  the  tight  again. 
"Now  dastards,  shall  your  flight  bo  dear, 
That  ye  do  battle,  bo  my  care, 
And  if  I  fall,  be  yours  to  know 
The  stroke  that  fells  me,  lays  ye  low.); 


The  Vision  oj  Cortes.  13 

Close  by  his  Hide,  forever  near, 

A  boy,  even  to  that  chieftain  dear, 

Came  as  his  page — where  foemen  strike, 

As  in  the  courtly  hall,  alike. 

Danger,  nor  toil,  nor  this  last  strait,  * 

This  bosom  twin  could  separate! 

His  feeling,  time,  nor  change  could  dim,       ' 

Fear'd  by  all  else,  yet  loved  by  him, 

To  him  he  spoke — "Boy,  raise  your  lance,  ' 

God,  send  you  good  deliverance — 

This  is  a  perilous  hour  for  both, 

Else  now,  our  parting  might  be  loth, 

But,  I  remember  me,  your  oath. 

Drive  your  steel  thro*  your  horse'e  neck, 

There  needs  no  spur,  yet  loose  your  check; 

He'll  leap  the  rank  that  girds  us  round, 

And  if  he  fail,  repeat  the  wound — 

Then  gain,  if  yet  ye  can,  the  sound. 

There,  ere  these  dastards  may  be  seen, 

Put  fire  unto  the.brigantine,(8) 

Or,  guide  her  quickly  from  the  shore,          >  ' 

And  seek  your  native  land  once  more— 

My  native  land — but  not  for  me, 

Without  this  day's  cloud  passes  o'er, 

That  native  land  again  to  see — 

Say  not  you  have  beheld  them  flj, 

But,  that  youVc  seen  your  chieftain  die." 


14  The  Vision  of  Corfe*. 

VH. 

He  bows,  but  makes  him  no  reply, 

Then  o'er  the  heads  of  those  surrounding, 
His  slight  made  jennet  seems  to  fly, 

Like  deer  o'er  western  prairies  bounding. 
When,  gudden  from  the  forest's  gloom, 

Upon  the  broad  savannah's  breaking, 
Compell'd  by  inauspicious  doom, 

The  traveller  seeks  a  kinder  homo, 
The  one,  so  loved  in  youth,  forsaking. 
Amid  her  enemies  she  springs, 
Then  sudden,  as  impell'd  by  wings, 
Convulsed  by  the  fatal  knife, 
She  leaps,  and  leaping,  spends  her  life. 
One  glance  the  chieftain  gives,  and  sees 
The  boy  as  free  as  southern  breeze, 
Unnoted,  in  the  greater  prize, 
TVithin  their  grasp,  before  their  eyes! 
And,  if  perchance,  his  foemen  by, 
Beheld  a  tear  drop  nil  his  eye, 
?Twere  less  at  this  assurance  known, 
Than,  that  his  followers  were  his  own) 
Compell'd,  as  well  as  he,  to  make 
A  triumph  of  the  very  stake. 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  16 

VIII. 

He  fights— tho  thickest  of  the  fray— 

His  steel  hath  broke  their  serried  lance*, 
And  proudly  now  he  stands  at  bay, 

And  not  a  foe  advances. 
"For  country,  freedom,  monarch  now, 

On!  Mexicans,  nor  cower 
At  one  dark  tyrant's  vengeful  blow, 

Within  your  very  power. 
The  temples  of  your  Cods  behold, 
Rifled  by  bigot  slaves,  for  gold; 
Your  monarchs,  children  of  the  sun, 
Who  gilds  whatever  he  look*  upon— - 
Lo!  now,  from  rolling  clouds  of  dun, 
He  rushes  forth  upon  the  skies, 
To  bid  you  to  the  *a>    -fice. 
Our  fathers*  dead— their  ample  thrones, 
Their  graves,  their  palaces,  their  bones, 
Whatever  of  sacred,  good  or  grand, 
Touch'd  by  these  slaves  with  impious  hand~ 
Strike  for  your  dead — if  not  to  gain 
Your  freedom,  strike — and  not  in  vain." 
Their  monarch  speaks,  and  his,  their  cause, 
Nor  in  the  conflict  do  they  pause, 
But  closing  round  the  Spanish  chief, 

IllS     HO  HO.     Of   r«kM/*UA 


16  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

Yet  still  he  strikes  with  giant  blow, 
The  death  of  each  adventurous  foe; 
Wild  as  the  lion,  circled  round 
By  hunter's  spear,  he  still  is  found, 
Tho'  sinking  'neath  repeated  blows, 
The  sternest,  savagest  of  foes. 

IX. 

One  moment's  pause  he  gains  from  fight, 

A  moment's  glance  he  casts  around  hin} 
Where,  hidden  from  his  followers'  sight, 

The  Mexicans  surround  him. 
There  is  a  triumph  in  his  eye, 

His  lip  exulting,  curls  in  pride— 
And  dares  he  dream  of  victory, 

Without  one  warrior  at  his  side? 
Perchance,  with  high  regard  to  fame, 
And  glorious  memory — deathless  name, 
He  feels,  that  he,  who  bravely  dies, 
Surrounded  by  his  enemies, 
.In  death,  wins  many  victories! 
But  lo!  what  splendor  dims  the  sight — 

Whence  is  that  sky's  unusual  glory, 
As  when  a  volcau  flames  at  night, 

From  some  cloud-lifting  promontory  f 
He  speaks — as  in  that  curling  tire 
His  soul  hath  won  its  fierce 


TJie  Vision  of  Cortes.  17 

And  u  stern  joy  upon  his  brow 
Proclaims,  oven  death  were  triumph  now. 


X. 

u'Tia  bravely  done,  ray  trusty  boy!" 
The  chieftain  spoke — unwonted  joy, 
Burst  forth  and  kindled  the  dark  eyo, 
That  witness'd  but  his  enemy, 
With  all  a  conqueror's  exslacy! 
"Oh!  would  yo  seek  your  land,  bravo  menr 
Why,  seek  it  on  that  whirlwind,  thon — 
For    by  my  sword,  your  journey  back. 
Will  find  as  perilous  a  track — 
There,  in  that  bright,  and  eddying  flame, 
Your  vessels  went — not  as  they  came; 
That  blaze  will  lead  to  victory  won — 
On!  for  the  Cross  and  glory— on." 
Each  eye  was  turned,  where  brightly  rose 

The  cloud,  that  tiash'd  with  sudden  light, 
While  all  the  far  horizon  glows 

With  hues,  tho'  dark,  yot  strangely  bright; 
A  hideous  glare  on  all  around, 

The  yet  ascending  columns  flew; 
And  Mexico  in  that  hour  found 

Full  many  an  omen  direly  true; 
While,  thro*  the  Spanish  host,  there  went, 

The  enthusiast-spirit 'a  voice  of  hcav'n, 


18  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

And  glad,  as  to  a  tournament, 

The  free  bit  to  their  iteeds  was  given. 
"Ho!  for  the  rescue,  men  of  Spain, 
Ho:  tor  the  rescue,  and  regain 
More  than  the  brave  can  lose,  and  all 
That  still  attends  the  warrior's  fall, 
Who  proudly  stems  the  opposing  tide, 
Your  glory,  and  Hiitpania's  pride!" 
Thus  o'er  the  field  the  signal  ran, 
And  with  the  sight  and  sound  began — 
Each  arm,  and  heart,  and  weapon  true, 
The  glorious  fray  anew! 
What  can  the  savage  chiefs  oppose, 
To  battle  of  superior  foes, 
But  rude,  and  ill-directed  blows! 
And  Cortes'  name — itself  a  hoet, 
Regains  the  ground  its  owner  lost— 
His  giant  form,  conspicuous  towering 
Flies   o'er  the  field,  like  meteor  lowering, 
A  light,  whose  brightest  shapes,  assume 
A  deeper  fixedness  of  gloom! 
What  can  arrest  Aw  path  of  blood, 
Who,  in  his  passion's  fearful  mood, 
His  very  followers  deem  to  be 
Akin  to  the  arch-enerav! 


The  Vision  of  Cortes  19 


XII. 

•'Now  is  our  time  for  triumph — On! 

Brave  followers  of  the  Cross,  and  be 
The  Heaven,  ye  seek  for,  more  than  won, 

When  thus  we  crush  idolatry! 
One  triumph  now,  and  future  times, 

With  conquest  perch'd  upon  our  brow. 
Will  half  forget  our  many  crimes, 

In  glancing  o'er  our  victory  now!" 
Tis  Cortes  speaks — and  on  he  loads, 
The  gallant  to  heroic  deeds; 
Superior  skill,  and  more  than  all, 
RccoverM  from  his  sudden  fall, 
He  rushes  thro'  the  retiring  flood, 
And  wades,  with  charger,  deep  in  blood. 
But  who  is  he  that  stands  at  bay, 
Alone,  and  stems  the  advancing  fray? 
An  Indian  by  his  garb — around 
His  brow,  a  golden  fillet  bound— 
Within,  with  many  a  gera,  is  set 
A  rich  and  sparkling  coronet — 
Deserted  by  his  trembling  bands, 
The  royal  Guatimozin  stands, 
And  stems  the  current — but  what  might, 
Alone,  and  taught  not  well  in  fight, 


The  Vision  of  Cortes, 

'Gainst  veteran  skill,  can  idly  dare 
Sustain  the  wide,  unequal  war! 

XIII. 

The  boy  is  at  the  Spaniard's  side, 
But  all  that  warrior  sees,  is  ho, 
Who,  firm  amid  the  shrinking  tide, 

Would  still  be,  as  he  has  been — free! 
••Curse  on  these  slaves! — 'twere  shame  to  stain 

My  scymitar  in  such  lowly  blood, 
But  that  my  glutless  soul  can  drain, 
At  every  happy  stroke,  a  flood!" 
Thus  from  the  savage  soldier,  fell 
The  grimly  mutter 'd,  sentence-knell — 
Not  his  to  strike  ignoble  foe. 
Till  thousands,  felt  the  single  blow. 
"Fall  back  and  give  them  room  to  fly, 
Tho'  there  are  still  enough  to  die — 
And  ye  may  keep  your  hands  in  play, 
Till  ye  have  hewn  a  wider  way; 
Then  hem  these  lowly  wretches  in, 
For  me,  there's  braver  spoil  to  win." 
And  with  couch'd  lance  and  giant  spring, 
He  battles  with  the  Indian  king, 
One  effort  more,  whose  followers  make, 
The  closing  ranks  of  Spain,  to  break, 


Thr  Vinon  of  Cortes.  21 

Onn  blow  for  liberty  and  life, 
And  all  is  o'er,  and  h'i*h'd  the  strife! 
The  king  i*  on  the  field,  his  foe, 
Above  him,  with  descending  blow; 
Before  the  hapless  monarch's  eyes, 
Swim  round  the  crowd,  and  reel  the  skies. 
But  not  with  fate,  like  this,  he  dies! 
The  grim-brow'd  victor,  to  its  sheath, 
Retnrn'd  the  blood-dvM  steel  of  death— 
PausM  for  a  moment,  ere  I  e  Dado 
His  followers  Rtny  the  active  blade, 
Then  turn'd  his  eyes  afar,  where  lay 
The  city  walls,  his  destin'd  prey — 
Lcap'd  on  his  steed,  and  led  the  way. 

XIV. 

The  triumph  is  complete — the  foe, 

Pouted,  no  longer  seek  the  fight; 
And  thro'  the  gates  of  Mexico, 

They  rush,  as  settles  down  the  night! 
Victors  and  vanquished — and  the  din, 

Shrieks  of  the  dying,  victor's  cries, 
With  more  than  mortal  turmoil,  win 

Ten  thousand  echoes  from  the  skies. 
Mad  with  the  toil,  the  throng,  the  glare, 
The  glory,  and  the  pomp  of  war*- 


The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

Exulting  in  complete  success, 
The  Spanish  soldiers  onward  press 
Among  their  foes,  still  numberless! 
And  ere  the  day  is  fully  gone, 
Mexico  is  lost  and  won! 

XV. 

What  should  succeed  such  victory  ?— 

Why,  wassailry,  aud  laughter,  wine, 
Shouts,  songs  from  gallant  chivalry, 

And  prayers  at  brute  devotion's  shrine. 
Drunk  with  success — the  torches  glare, 

Now  light  the  spacious  walls,  now  throw, 
Upon  the  silent  river  near, 

A  deadly  and  an  awful  glow. 
The  palace  burns — awake  the  cry — 
The  palace  burns — the  flames  are  high; 
And  each  infuriate  soldier,  hands 
Some  ruddier,  more  vindictive  brands; 
'Till  in  one  awful  blaze  of  light, 
A  rum  in  unnatural  might, 
It  curls  in  billowy  seas  of  fire, 
Ascending  in  a  smoky  spire, 
'Till,  toppling  down,  each  heated  wall 
Is  curved  and  bending  to  its  fall — 
Tho  'catapult,  and  down  it  goes, 
Heedless,  over  friends  md  foes; 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  23 

A  moment's  silence — and  the  rout, 
Send  up  a  mix'd  and  giddy  shout. 

XVI. 

Will  this  appease  the  kindled  souls, 

Of  those,  who,  mad  with  conquest,  deem, 
No  land  that  blooms,  no  sea  that  rolls, 

The  proudest  in  enthusiast's  dream,. 
Tho'  bearing  native  dcmi-gods, 

And  born  upon  a  lucky  hour, 
Can  venture  with  the  fearful  odds, 

Of  their  own  wild,  advent'rous  pow'r! 
The  cry  is  forth— the  sleuth-hound  wakes, 
An  appetite,  that  nothing  slakes, 
And  what  shall  feed  his  fury's  rage, 
What,  shall  that  appetite,  assuage? 
What,  cool  that  fever  in  the  brain: 
Which  reason  seeks  to  calm,  in  vain— 
What,  still  that  tempest  in  the  breast, 
That  will  not  fly,  and  cannot  rest? — 
Away — for  other  victims — bring 
To  sacrifice,  a  foe — a  King! 

XVII. 

They've  bound  a  monarch  on  the  flame, 
The  iron,  red-hot  ribs  are  placed 

Beneath  hit  form,  whom  crime,  nor  shame, 
Nor  human  failing  e'er  debased. 


24  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

And  Cortes  stands  above  him  now— 

A  demon'*  fury  in  his  eye, 
While  calmness,  on  the  monarch's  brow. 

Bespeaks  a  fearful  apathy. 
"A 'captive,  and  a  nation's  king! 
If  thou  wouldst  plume  a  freer  wing, 
Go,  bid  thy  followers  quickly  bring, 
The  splendors  of  thy  favour'd  land, 
Without  delay,  with  lavish  hand — 
The  gold,  the  wealth  that  decks  your  halls, 
The  solid  silver  of  your  walls, 
At  once  pour  forth  to  greet  our  eyes, 
Or,  thou  shalt  fall  the  sacrifice, 
For,  thut  to  idol  gods  thy  knee, 
Is  bent  in  low  idolatry, 
And  not  to  him    by  whose  command, 
We  come  to  purify  your  land!" 

XVIII. 

There's  a  splendour  'neath  yon  cloud, 

Ye  may  see  the  ray  of  light, 
Like  a  spirit  from  its-shroud, 

Bursting  on  the  gazer's  sight! 
On  the  outer  edge,  like  gold, 

How  it  shadows  still  the  dense, 
And  ruffm'd  vestment'*  tvn)  ibid, 

W  ith  u  high  magnificence. 


The  Viswn  of  Cortes.  25 

So  on  Guatimozin's  brow, 

Gleam'd  his  scorn's  unnatural  glow. 

Shining  on  his  sullen  mien, 

Like  th<!  moon,  with  silver  sheen, 

On  the  snblc  robe  of  night, 

Edging  it  with  wavy  light — 

And  his  accents  flow  in  scorn, 

Tho'  upon  the  engine  torn. 

"Greedy  adventurer,  dar'st  thou  say, 

Thy  Gods  have  sent  thee  forth  to  prey 

With  tiger  lip,  upon  the  brave, 

W  h<  se  land,  by  thee,  is  one  wide  grave, 

\V  here  sleep  her  murderd  sons,  her  king, 

Each  brave  and  generous  living  thing,' 

'Till  all  around  is  dark  and  foul, 

And  made  even  fit  for  thee,  to  prowl, 

As  hcnds  in  kindred  darkness,  when  at  night, 

They  move,  lit  only  by  hell's  sulph'ry  light! 

Seek'st  thou  the  yellow  ore,  the  spoil, 

For  which,  thou'st  borne  uncounted  toil, 

Worthy,  in  better  cause,  to  claim, 

More  than  thou  hast,  or  cravest,  fame? 

Then  know  thy  labour  needless — well 

I  knew,  this  furniture  of  hell, 

Had  been  thy  sole  regard — and  when 

t  drew  to  head  my  gallant  men, 


Tlie  Vision  of  Cortes. 

At  the  high  city,  'ncath  its  wave, 
Our  coffers  found  a  ready  grave; 
There  with  its  yellow  sands,  our  gold, 
Thro'  distant  nations  shall  be  roll'd, 
Glad  poverty,  destroy  disease, 
And  lend  the  needy,  life  and  ease, 
But  never  shall  delight  thine  eye 
With  its  rank,  baneful  luxury.'' 

XIX. 

Then  grew  the  Spaniard's  brow  more  deep, 

More  deadly  in  its  swarthy  hue; 
And  passions,  tho'  they  might  not  sleep, 

Were  silent  to  the  view! 
He  would  have  hearken'd  not  the  tale— 

The  spoil,  so  cherish'd,  sought  for,  lost: — 
And  what  to  him  would  now  avail, 

The  labour,  blood  and  wealth  it  cost. 
k'Thou  hast  not  dar'd  to  spoil  the  shrines 
Where  all  thy  gold  and  silver  shines; 
That  wealth  to  idols  consecrate — 
Or^fly,  ere  yet  it  be  too  late, 
And  drag  the  river,  gallant  men, 
And  your  reward  shall  meet  ye  then. 
Thou  savage,  that  hast  cross'd  my  path, 
Hast  won,  and  now  shall  leel  my  wrath; 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  27 

It  was  thy  lot,  or  good  or  ill, 
To  stay  the  progress  of  my  will, 
Protract  my  spoils,  by  idle  war, 
That  could  not  win,  and  did  but  mar: 
Now  flhalt  thou  feel,  to  cross  the  pow'r 
Of  triumph,  in  expectant  hour, 
Is  but  to  win,  or  slow,  or  fast, 
The  vengeance  that  must  come  at  laat." 

XX. 

Bound  on  the  flame — with  look  ns  calm 

As  conscious  peace  and  quiet  bliss, 
The  monarch's  robo,  the  victor's  palm, 

Were,  men  and  nations,  toys  to  this. 
And  not  a  shrinking  start,  nor  sign, 

Of  mutterM  anguish,  hidden,  deep, 
Proclain.s  that  he,  of  all  his  line, 

Hath  been  the  first,  with  pain/ to  weep. 
As  calmly  as  in  peaceful  bow'r, 
As  proudly  as  in  robe  of  pow'r, 
As  haughtily  a*  victor,  now 
Is  Guatimozin's  royal  brow. 
Beside  him,  on  a  kindred  bed, 
Of  burning  steel,  with  faggots  fed, 
His  fa  YOU  rite  turns,  in  agony 
Upon  his  chief,  his  dying  eye, 


2S  The  Vision  of  Corte*. 

As  if  to  ask,  from  idle  pride, 
What  it  had  heretofore ,  denied! 
The  monarch  read  his  servant 'a  thought, 
And  while  his  high-born  features  caught, 
A  part  of  that  enthusiast  flume 
Devotion  feels,  but  cannot  name, 
Rrbuk'd  him  with  a  srailc,  exclaiming — 
His  mounting-spirit,  nothing  taming, 
Of  its  renewed  and  holy  powers — 
"Do  I  repose  on  flowers. "(9.) 

XXI. 

He  died — what  boots  it  how,  to  name, 

But,  with  the  Spaniard,  rest*  the  shame-— 

And  if,  as  distant  tales  have  said, 

The  martyr  on  his  fiery  bed, 

Spoke  forth  a  fearful  prophecy, 

Of  fate,  unto  his  enemy — 

Then,  do  I  ween,  the  curse  was  sooth, 

Since  after-time,  hath  proved  its  truth, 

And  age  on  age  hath  puss'd  away, 

And  memory  of  the  fatal  fray, 

Itself  grown  dark,  and  yet  the  bale 

Of  that  deep  prophecy  and  tale, 

Hangs  o'er  the  race,  the  name,  the  land, 

Of  that  fierce ,  base  and  murderous  band. 


Vision  of  Cortes. 

Nor,  can  their  very  nation  break, 
The  fearful  doom,  and  rise,  and  wake! 

XXII. 

The  monarch  died — his  people  fell 
Beneath  the  fetters,  ImkM  too  well; 
And  Freedom,  led  by  Ignorance, 
Tho'  seeking  oil  to  burst  the  spell, 
Ne'er  found  complete  deliverance. 
In  Mexico  the  victors  rept, 
A  hated,  fear'd,  unsought  for  guest, 
On  laurels,  which,  no  longer  white, 
Shed  purple  blood-drops  on  the  sight. 
And  silence  reigns,  where  nought  it 
Ambition  sleeps  not — men  may  cease 
Their  path  of  violence  and  blood, 
But  only  want  tho  fretful  mood, 
Of  greedy  avarice,  or  the  thirst 
Of  that  supremacy  accurst, 
Which  perils  honest  pride  and  name, 
And  finds,  at  best,  a  doubtful  fame. 
Does  Cortes  slumber  in  hia  tent, 
Now  that  the  force  of  war  is  spent, 
And  freemen  feel  their  chain*  no  more. 
Or  feeling,  dare  not,  well  deplore, 
The  IOM  of  birthright  prized  of  yore— 
As  if  thy  pure  and  sacred  glow, 
4 


30  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

Freedom,  was  meant  for  things  so  low. 
Say,  does  he  slumber — is  his  sleep 
Quiet  and  grateful,  as  the  deep 
Refreshing  slumbers  of  the  brave. 
Who  spill  their  blood  on  land  and  wave, 
Opposed  to  a  despotic  throne, 
At  Freedom's  sacred  call  alone? 

XXIII. 

'Tis  the  mid  hour  of  night — the  lamp 

Is  burning  on  a  table  near, 
Silence  is  o'er  the  Spanish  camp, 

A  silence  of  mysterious  fear. 
And  Cortes  sleeps  upon  a  bed — 

Rough  for  a  monarch,  not  for  him, 
Who  oft-times  found  a  peasant's  shed, 

Most  meel  for  each  athletic  limb? 
Or,  on  the  roughest  peak  has  lain 
His  giant  bulk,  and  may  again, 
In  far  more  quietude  than  now, 
Wrhen  victory  twines  around  his  brow, 
The  wreath  of  triumph  and  of  blood, 
So  sternly  sought  thro'  wild  and  flood. 
No!  by  the  dark  and  furrowy  frown, 
The  lip  compress'd,  and  mutter'd  groan— 
The  writhing  of  that  sinewy  frame — 
The  sudden  burst  of  well  known  name 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  31 

From  gnashing  teeth,  long  taught  to  hide 

The  waking  thought  in  garb  of  pride 

The  tossing  of  the  giant  limb — 

The  aspect  madden'd,  startling,  grim — 

The  close  observer  may  behold, 

What,  seldom  yet,  the  tongue  hath  told, 

A  story,  from  the  lips  apart, 

The  demon  gnawing  at  the  heart? 

XXIV. 

Fear  hangs  upon  him  like  n  spell — 

A  deep,  oppressive,  deadly  weight. 
He  speaks — his  tones  are  like  the  knell— 

The  penal  tones  of  fate! 
lie  starts — cold  dews  are  on  his  brow, 

His  hair's  erect — his  eye-balls  glare, 
And  strange,  unmeaning  accents  flow 

From  his  cold  lips,  to  empty  air! 
A  pray'r  is  on  his  lips — a  pray'r, 
The  first,  perchance,  heard  ever  there; 
And  audible,  but  half  suppressed 
Accents  of  fear  are  in  his  breast — 
He  calls  on  Heav'n— on  God — on  all 
On  whom  he  once  disdain'd  to  call! — 
On  all — whom,  once,  in  victory's  pride, 
The  impious  wretch  had  dar'd  deride, 
And  §corn'd  the  very  book,  his  bands, 


32  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

Had  vow'd  to  bear  in  foreign  land*, 
The  manual  of  the  simple  race, 
Who,  born  not  yet  to  light  or  grace 
Ill-fortune  render M  to  the  sway, 
Of  savage,  Ices  refinM  than  they. 

XXV. 

A  spirit  stands  before  him  on  the  night, 
Thut  now,  beneath  its  presence,  grows  to  light  - 
Vapours  surround  it — darkness  wraps  its  brow, 
And  makes  it  into  shadowy  hugeness  grow — 
While  silence  seems  to  stand,  even  visible, 
As  the  dark  soldier  cowers  beneath  the  spell. 
And  starts  with  shuddering  horror  to  behold, 
The  Indian  monarch  now  before  him,  cold — 
And  chilling  up  his  blood,  into  a  dense 
And  creeping  mass,  of  agony  intense — 
He  moves  not — speaks  not — ev'ry  muscle's  boui 
Beneath  the  dead  weight  of  the  presence  rouni 
His  eye-balls  starting  from  their  sockets,  scene 
The  only  living  agents  in  that  dream, 
Tho'  not  a  portion  of  his  form,  but  finds 
Some  atom,  of  that  terrible  sight,  that  winds 
Thro*  ev'ry  pore  and  secret  artery, 
Making  the  curdling  blood  creep  sluggishly — 
God!  what  a  groan  of  living  death  now  break; 
From  his  broad  chest,  as  slowly  he  awakes. 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  3tf 

XXVI 

He  wakes,  and  in  the  dimness  of  that  waking, 
He  deems  the  fearful  dream  and  spectre,  gone; 
And  laughs  and  trembles,  ev?ry  fibre  shaking 
While,  from  his  giant  form,  the  long  breath  break- 
Relieves  the  almost  suffocating  spell,  i  mg> 
That  wrought  upon  him  like  a  pang  of  hell! 
And  should  the  fearless  champion  be  overthrown, 
By  idle  fears,  and  shadowy  things  unknown? 
He  is  again  himself — and  stands  alone — 
At  least  so  deems  ho— till  his  sight  more  clear, 
Reveals  the  horrible  visitant  more  near — 
Before  him,  standing  in  the  garb  he  wore 
Upon  the  bloody  field,  some  hours  before: 
The  light,  the  living  light  of  life,  was  gone, 
He  stood,  a  form  of  life,  but  made  of  stone; 
Moving  no  muscle,  working  no  wand'ring  look 
Or  glance,  by  cv'ry  thing  of  life  forsook — 
A  ghastly  whiteness  o'er  his  features  spread, 
Confirmed  the  fearful  aspect  of  the  dead — 
His  sunken  eye  alone,  had  shook  the  soul, 
And  then  so  fixed,  as  if  unmeant  to  roll — 
So  glaz'd,  and  glistening,  as  in  that  short  time, 
The  worm  had  claim'd  iu  own,  and  left  its  slime, 
\nd  foul'd  the  god-head's  promise  of  high  sway, 
With  putrid  taint,  and  loathsomeness,  and  clay! 


.34  The  I'lsion  of  Cortes. 

Ynd,  in  that  fearful  moment  of  suspense, 
Which  lost,  yet  wrought  to  agony,  each  sense, 
Upon  the  warrior's  hand,  like  blistering  Hume, 
That  drove  and  dried  tho  blood,  as  there  it  came 
The  spectre's  long  and  bony  finger  fell — 
Jlemov'd  not  thence,  and  resting  as  a  spell — 
That  bound  the  victim  in  its  -x>il  of  fear, 
And  froze  and  burnt,  alternate  and  severe — 
Transfix'd  by  horror,  as  at  first  he  stood, 
The  warrior  gaz'd,  with  thick  and  curdled  blood, 
Nor  spoke,  nor  strove  to  speak,  nor  raisM  the  hand 
So  wont  to  fearful  strife  and  fierce  command, 
Hut  all  impassive,  near  the  Indian  king, 
He  grows — a  cold,  unrieaniog,  living  thing! 

XXVII. 

The  monarch-spectre  spoke  not — in  his  look, 
There  was  a  speech  his  stern  lips  never  spoke, 
Commanding,  from  the  living  warrior's  frame, 
As  ductile  'neath  its  influence,  and  as  tame, 
As  any  worthless  thing  we  may  not  name, 
That  he  should  follow — and  with  silent  tread, 
He  led  the  way,  and  swiftly  onward  sped, 
Conqueror  and  victim — now  no  more  the  bold 
And  desperate  soldier,  but  a  form  as  cold, 
And  unresisting,  in  its  task  of  pain, 
As  if  all  life  had  fled  from  ev'ry  vein. 


The  Vmon  of  Cortes.  35 

Night  clos'd  around  thorn,  as  the  city's  walls 

Grew  into  shticic  behind — their  own  footfalls 

Only  arousing  Silence,  for  a  pause, 

In  rapid  dream,  to  spirit  out  the  cause 

Of  interruption,  in  his  dim  abode, 

Where  sleep,  fatigued,  continual,  throws  the  load 

Of  his  o'erburthen'd  frame,  and,  with  his  eyes, 

Thousand  in  number,  seeks  for,  and  espies, 

Among  hin  visions,  shadowy  histories! 

They  strode  among  the  slaughtcr'd  men,  who  died, 

The  past  day,  both  before  and  at  their  sido, 

There,  pil'd  in  silent  heaps,  inanimate —     [fate — 

They  fought  like  brutes,  and  won  a  wild-beast's 

And  as  they  strode,  uncertainly,  and  still, 

The  moon  uprose  behind  a  grim-facM  hill, 

And  look'd,  with  strange  smile  on  the  fearful  sight, 

That  grew  more  horrible  beneath  her  light — 

Passions,  not  yet  extinct,  were  still  expressed 

On  lips,  that  tell  the  struggle  of  the  breast, 

The  innate  war  with  death,  the  foeman's  strife, 

The  shrinking,  shuddering,  from  the  fatal  knife, 

And  love  of  turbulent,  but  valued  life— 

And  Cortes  shrunk,  that  never  shrunk  before — 

There  lay  a  fav'rite  captain  in  his  gore, 

His  tongue  lapt  o'er  his  teeth,  which  in  the  last. 

And  fearful  struggle,  while  bin  spirit  past, 


30  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

Had  torn  it  half  in  twain,  and  there  it  lay. 
In  dust  and  blood,  that  shouted  yesterday, 
In  all  the  lull  expressiveness  arid  glow 
Of  hearts,  that  see  but  happiness  below. 
And  many  faces  saw  they,  that  he  knew,     [dew, 
Turn'd  upwards  to  the  hcav'ns — glist'ning  with 
That  fell  like  sweet  drops  of  an  April  rain, 
Or.  taintless  pearls  upon  the  crimson  plain, 
As  if  Micro  had  been  mercy  for  the  slain! 

XXVHI. 

Why  does  the  Spaniard  start? — Before  him  lie? 
The  boy — his  fiiv'rite  page — the  sacrifice 
To  his  ambition— for  his  life  and  fame, 
And  here,  till  now,  forgotten — to  his  shame! 
More  pale  and  tender  made  by  death,  his  cheek 
Now  wore  a  spirit's  whiteness — while  a  streak 
Fine  and  quite  pure,scarce  trickling  from  the  wound 
Proclaimed  the  death,  yet  gentle,  that  he  found. 
No  bruise,  nor  savage  blow,  from  rugged  knife, 
Had  taught  the  parting  pangs  of  death,  to  life, 
But  tender-seeming,  as  himself,  the  blow 
Was  Kiich,  as  might  not  well  have  come  from  foe. 

And  what  docs  Cortes,  at  the  sight 
Of  that  devoted  martyr  boy — 

Can  aught  of  triumph  give  delight, 
In  presence  of  that  deep  alloy? 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  37 

Such  high  devotedness  end  truth, 
Might  sure  have  won  a  better  lot; 

Such  firmness  in  unshaken  youth, 
And  courage,  love,  and  all  forgot? 

And  ever  thus,  while  time  shall  be, 
Ambition,  blinded  by  the  sun, 

Throughout  its  flight,  can  never  see, 

Aught  but  the  orb  it  looks  upon! 
He  wrung  his  hands  in  anguish — clasp'd  his  brow, 
And  to  his  face,  came  back  the  swarthy  glow, 
A  native  there — revenge,  and  thirst  of  blood, 
And  all  the  fearful  demon  of  his  mood — 
Yrt,  he  knelt  down,  beside  the  delicate  form, 
That  seem'd  a  lily,  broken  by  the  storm, 
Along  with  stronger  ruins;  and  with  hand 
Of  fond  enquiry,  sought  to  gather  much 
Of  hope  and  comfort  from  the  passionate  touch, 
Where  the  nerves  trembled,  free  from  all  command. 
And  for  a  moment  thought  he,  life  was  there, 
And  laugh'd  in  his  fierce  joy — but  cold  despair, 
Followed  the  first  expression  of  delight, 
As  moons  are  swallow'd  up,  by  cloud?,  at  night! 
The  savage  soldier  wept,  or  seem'd  to  weep, 
For  once,  with  sudden,  and  impetuous  sweep, 
As  if  disdaining  aught  of  sympathy, 
He  brush'd  his  rough  hand  o'er  his  wintry  eye: 
But  yet,  reluctant  to  depart,  he  stood 
6 


38  T/tc  Vision  of  Curies. 

Awhile,  beside  the  form,  in  musing  mood, 
Then  hastily  displacing  the  steel  band 
That  held  the  boy's  cap,  underneath  his  hand, 
Ho  tore  the  cap  aside— long,  streaming  hair, 
Iteveal'd,  too  well,  the  dead  girl  sleeping  there. 
In  peace,  at  last — in  peace,  too  lately  known, 
And  only  found,  and  felt,  when  ever  gone. 

XXIX. 

He  hastily  strode  on — an  if  he  sought 

To  lose  the  lingering  traces  of  that  thought, 

Which,  like  the  ocean,  settling  from  a  storm, 

Hath  still  a  fearful  wildness  on  its  form! 

They  reach'd  n  plain — before  them,  rose  on  high. 

Dark  Acapulco(lO)  frowning  to  the  sky, 

Like  mounting  battlements,  by  demons  set, 

To  reach  the  glorious  heaven,  they  grieve  for  jet 

But  where  is  he,  that  chill  and  fearful  guide? 

No  longer  moves  he  by  the  Spaniard's  side, 

And,  all  alone  upon  the  bloody  plain, 

Girt  by  the  gloomy  spirits  of  the  slain, 

Who  wake  the  night  winds  from  their  ocean  lair 

To  waft  their  shr.eks  of  agony  or  fear — 

He  stands  alone — when  past  that  spirit  shade,  • 

Nor  rous'd  a  bretth  of  air,  nor  shook  a  blade, 

Or  drop  of  dew  from  off  the  bended  grass, 

Sn    Htlpnt      mi/1    art   -jiu'/ion    t\te\    hf*    nnaat 


The  Fi*t0n  of  Cortes.  39 

And  colder  grew  the  spirit,  in  the  breast 
Of  (hat  fierce  warrior,  struggling,  but  represt— 
And  fate-led,  back  his  footsteps  he  retraced, 
To  that  broad  plair.,  with  purple  laurels  grac'd, 
And,  from  among  the  dead,  with  gentle  arm, 
As  if  it  trembled  to  displace  one  charm, 
Of  fearful,  but  sweet  beauty  given  by  death, 
"Which  seem'd  to  sleep  upon  her  lips  like  breath, 
Nor  froze  the  silk  of  one  wind-shaken  curl- 
He  rais'd  the  lifeless  form  of  that  young  girl, 
And,  with  strange  care,  he  bore  her  from  the  spot, 
So  mark'd  by  death,  with  indiscriminate  blot; 
And  laid  her  down  upon  the  swardy  bed, 
Supporting  on  his  arm,  her  drooping  head, 
While  with  a  strange,  unconsciousness  of  care, 
His  fingers  waoder'd  idly  in  her  hair, 
As  they  had  long  been  taught  to  wander  there. 
Thufl,  at  the  morn,  by  anxious  followers,  found 
The  savage  chief,  re  DOS'  d  upan  the  ground  — 
Nor  srail'd   nor  spoke  —  but  musingly,  he  bade, 
By  sign,  that  they  should  straight  remove  the  maid, 
From  off  the  fatal  field  —  DOT  sigh'd  to  part, 
With  her,  that  hung,  like  life-Wood,  round  his  heart. 


XXX. 

And  knew  he  now,  in  that  tad  hoar, 
When  death  had  pror'd  hw  fearful 


40  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

.  And  Love,  that  conquers  every  foe, 
Had  sunk  beneath  his  fatal  blow, 
How  much  the  heart  had  been  his  own, 
Won  only,  when  forever  gone. 
A  boyish  joust  in  courtly  Spain — 
A  time  he  would  not  see  again, 
Tho'  pleasure  then  absorbed  all  pain — 
He  felt  the  force  of  those  dark  eyes, 
And,  for  the  lover  soon  espies, 
He  hll'd  his  own  with  mute  replies. 
What  boots  it  now,  to  tell  the  tale, 
Of  hapless  love,  and  hopeless  wail — 
To  chide  the  beggar  Fortune,  now, 
That  ecorn'd  the  dream,  and  broke  the  vow; 
Time,  while  it  robs  away  each  hope. 
Can  never,  well  with  memory  cope; 
And  love  that  scorns  oblivion  yet, 
Can  never,  where  it  sigh'd,  forget. 
Immur'd  in  cold,  conventual  walls, 
The  tear  of  hidden  maiden  falls; 
And  not  the  regimen  of  pray  'r, 
Nor  ul)  the  deep  seclusion  there — 
And  not  the  penance,  creed,  or  vow, 
ForcM  on  a  heart  that  could  but  bow, 
And  perish  'neath  the  unerring  blow, 
Could  thrust  aside  the  pleasant  pain, 
That  neither  heart  shall  know  again* 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  41 

XXXI. 

Years  had  pass'd  by,  and  he,  she  lovM 

By  absence,  and  by  time  repiovM, 

For  men  forget,  where  women  sigh, 

And  rove,  when  fruiler  spirits  die — 

By  high,  adventure  wrapt,  and  won, 

Upon  the  distant  seas  had  gone — 

And  so  had  filPd  the  stirring  time, 

\Vith  scenes,  perchance,  of  blood  and  crime, 

That,  thought  of  her  he  left  behind,- 

Not  often  stole  upon  his  mind. 

No  pleasant  changes  in  her  lot, 

Had  haply  made  him  thus  forgot — 

Alas!  already,  much  too  deal, 

His  name  was  ever  in  her  ear, 

For  he  had  d^elt  in  fields  of  fight, 

And  kept  his  fame  so  oft  in  sight, 

That  the  faint  flame  of  early  days, 

Had  burst  into  a  mighty  blaze — 

And  love,  with  newer  powers  allied, 

Beheld  the  hero's  form  with  pride. 

How  could  that  innocent  girl  refrain, 

From  love  of  him,  whom,  all  of  Spain, 

Beheld  the  first  among  the  great — 

She  lov'd,  admir'd,  and  bow'd  to  fate! 


The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

XXXII. 

One  hapless  hour — deem'd  happy  then, 

She  found  unbarr'd,  her  prison-grate; 
The  keeper  of  that  fearful  den, 

Withdrawn — she  did  not  hesitate! 
A  moment  gave  her  freedom — gav<?, 
To  he  the  rest  of  life,  a  slave; 
For,  what  is  slavery,  but  to  be 

Dependant  for  the  spirit's  life, 
Upon  the  will  of  those  not  free! 

She  sought  him  out  in  fearful  strife — 
A  page's  garb,  her  pass  became, 
And,  with  a  ready  change  of  name, 
Suspected  not,  she  won  his  ear, 
His  heart — if  heart  could  still  be,  where 
Sat  Pride,  Ambition,  Avarice — 
To  the.«e,  must  love  bo  sacrifice! 
It  was  her  fate,  and  so  she  bcw'd, 
And  mingled  with  tiie  menial  crowd; 
But  ever,  in  the  fearful  hour, 
When  trumpets  sound,  and  war-clouds  IOWT. 
However  fierce  did  war  betide, 
That  ready  page  was  by  his  side; 
And  sealM    without  reprnarh,  the  vow, 
Kept  to  the  last,  and  caricel'd  now! 


The  Vision  of  Cortes.  43 

XXXIII. 

She  died,  a  martyr  to  tho  love, 
Descended  from,  return 'd  above; 
Untainted  in  her  purer  form, 
That,  like  the  moonbeam  in  the  storm, 
Tho'  swallow'd  up,  by  clouds  of  ill, 
Was  a  rich,  precious  moonbeam  still! 

Oh,  never  more 

Shall  blight  of  sorrow  fall  upon  that  hea^t — 
Nor,  tear  thro1  that  repressed  eye-lid  start, 
Nor  heart's  affection  from  its  birth-place  part — k 

For  all  is  o'er 

Of  trial  and  long  suffering,  and  the  pain,  [brain, 
That,  worse  than  all,  hangs  on  the  o'erburthenM 
Too  much  dependant  on  the  spirit's  choice, 

To  utter  forth  a  voice! 
A  voice  of  reason,  still  to  love,  a  foe, 
Too  sternly  dashing  out,  with  sights  of  wo, 

And  tones  of  truth, 

The  picture  lines  of  youth! 
She  died  for  him  she  loved — her  greatest  pride, 
That,  as  for  him  she  liv'd,  for  him  she  died! 

Make  her  young  grave, 

Sweet  fancies,  where  the  pleasant  branches  lave, 
Their  drooping  tassels  in  some  murmuring  wave. 
And  ye,  incredulous!  believe  not,  faith, 


44  The  Vision  of  Cortes. 

Thus  warmly  kept  through  life,  and  prov'd  in  (let 
Avail'd  not,  nor  was  valu'd  by  the  breast, 

Whose  spirit  thus  it  bless'd — 
No! — he  she  perish 'd  for — the'  high-nurst  fume 
Perch'd  with  an  eaglet's  pinion  on  his  name— 

And  sunny  Spain 
Valued  his  worth,  and  with  his  honours  gave. 

Neglect  and  shame,(ll) 
Reward  of  all,  who  labour  for  the  blind — 

His  warped  mind 
SighM  for  the  Indian  valley,  where  the  maid 

His  boyhood  lov'd,  was  laid — 
And,  tho'  his  pride  of  heart  allow'd  no  trace, 
Of  his  soul's  sorrow,  to  o'crcloud  his  face, 

He  never  smiPd  again! 


CAIN. 


A  SCRIPTURE  POEM. 


"What  is  strength,  without  a  doable  share 

Of  wisdom?  va«t ,  unwieldy,  burdensome, 
Proudly  secure,  yet  liable  to  fall, 
By  weakest  subtleties," 

SAMSON  AOOKISTKI. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  following  IB  the  projected  introduction  to 
a  Poem  of  some  length,  upon  the  subject  of  Cain. 
Its  continuation  depends  entirely  upon  the  recep 
tion)  which  the  present  specimen,  may  meet  with 
from  the  public.  The  oart  here  gi?en,  will  form 
the  first  book. 


CAIN. 


SPIRIT,  that  to  the  mighty  of  old  time-** 
When  men  were  giants,  little  less  than  Gods, 
And  sole  omnipotent,  to  earth's  known  end, 
Whether  in  arms,  or  in  the  sciences; 
That  taught  the  knowledge  of  the  vast  unseen, 
And  pruned  the  tree  of  thought,  too  free. 
Luxuriant,  in  its  first-born,  wild  excess — 
Didst  lend  the  power,  and  living  energy, 
That  made  them,  spite  of  rough  discourtesy, 
And  rude  adventure  of  the  boorish  time, 
Give  themselves  to  the  spirit  of  true  thought, 
And  in  the  mountains,  or  the  bladed  fields, 
Or  in  the  shadow  of  the  desert,  made, 
Remote  from  the  intrusion  of  the  world, 
A  home  for  higher  converse — I  implore,  y^ 
Celestial,  thy  proud  aid  and  confidence, 
That  to  ray  theme  so  lofty,  I  impart 
A  something  of  the  tone  that  should  belong 
To  song  adventurous: — after  him,  who  sang— 


48  Cain. 

Him,  whose  dim  eyes,  bent  innerward,  beheld 
The  God  that  was  within  him,  blind  beside — 
I  may  not  tread  unaided,  nor  attempt 
The  golden  tenor  of  that  holy  harp, 
That  spake  in  the  proud  voice  of  prophecy, 
And  mingled  with  the  mandate  of  the  Lord, 
Unearthly  melodies,  that  gave  the  waste 
Perceiving  sense,  and  won  the  midnight  car 
Of  silence  down,  upon  th'  attentive  world. 
Spin*,  the  parent  of  secur'd  success, 
Be  with  me  now,  and  on  my  argument, 
Simple,  from  thee  majestic,  be  bestow'd 
The  triumph  thou  didst  shed  on  it  of  old! 

The  earth  was  now  a  garden — summer  had  grain 
The  fields  with  yellow  riches,  and  the  trees, 
Bent  with  their  redden'd  off'rings,  to  the  ground. 
A  smile  was  over  all — the  sky  was  till'd 
\\  ith  a  fair  countenance,  and  on  the  earth, 
A  pleasant  shade  was  cast,  and  the  sweet  beam 
Of  the  young  morning  had  embraced  it  all, 
Till  it  grew  palpable  to  touch  and  taste, 
And  gloried  in  its  freshness  and  its  calm. 
Eden,  with  all  its  wealth,  not  ail  den.ed 
To  ilie  lone  exiles,  who  had  pitch'd  their  tent*, 
IV  ith  sorrowful  hearts,  not  far  remote  the  spot 
They  hud  so  blindly  forfeited  and  lost — 
Repenting  all  too  lute,  of  the  deep  crimo 


CViiii.  49 

That,  to  succeeding  ages  must  enure 
In  punishment,  without  the  pleasant  sin, 
Which  brought  them  down,  the  penalty,  not  their?, 
Save  in  endurance. — Eden,  the  lost,  still  rose, 
While  all  was  turbulent  passion  in  their  hearts, 
Remorse  and  sobbing  grief,  deep,  but  not  loud, 
And  lute  Repentance,  sorrowing  o'er  the  past, 
In  a  sweet  calm — while  Night,  with  sable  plume, 
Frown'd  black  upon  the  wanderers,  and  spread 
His  wings  between  them,  and  the  sweet  heart-home, 
Fair  birthright,  they  had  bargained  off,  for  tears — 
As  if  to  shut  them  from  the  long,  last  look, 
That  Innocence  would  cast  upon  its  home, 
Endcar'd  by  all  that  youth  can  conjure  up, 
Y'-t  not  surpassing  what  indulgent  heav'n, 
Had,  from  the  boundless  measure  of  its  wealth, 
Portion'd,  in  kindness,  to  the  first  born  man! 
Sweet  earth!  what  other  spot  of  earth  shall  be 
Like  that  of  childhood?  where  it  first  grew  up, 
And  spoke  its  first  entrancing  melodies, 
And  'pluin'd  as  gently  as  the  delicate  leaf, 
Ruffled  by  rude  October.     Where  its  sports 
Were  first  familiar  with  the  scene  of  play, 
Its  very  trees  remembered,  and  its  leaves, 
Familiar  as  cool  garments,  loosely  thrown 
Between  it  and  the  ever-piercing  sun- 
Poor  tokens,  which  the  heart  may  never  bear 


50  Cain. 

Along  with  it — that  in  its  lonely  hours, 

When  all  the  past,  like  night -winds,  slowly  com* 

Back  to  the  recollection  and  the  sight, 

It  has  no  tangible  token,  it  may  touch, 

And  feel  its  sympathy  rejoin 'd  by  tone 

Of  some  thing  kindred — as  a  wak'ning  string, 

Of  sweet  harp-voicing,  brings  the  madman  hom< 

To  reason,  and  fair  quietness,  and  peace. 

And  they  have  bade  adieu — a  long  adieu — 
And  who  can  bid  adieu,  to  all  its  joys, 
Its  home  of  childhood,  and  the  cottage  floor, 
And  the  broad  tree,  that  overhung  with  shade, 
And  canopied  the  bank,  whereon  the  breeze, 
Won  by  fresh  odours  of  the  innocent  wild, 
Came  down  and  rested — the  sweet  rude  repast, 
And  fresh  ripe  fruits,  spread  out  unconsciously, 
Pluck'd  from  the  tree  overhead,  and  simply  plac'd 
Before  the  eye,  creating  appetite, 
Uncharged  by  dainty  preference,  nor  taught, 
By  coarse  satiety,  to  seek  for  aught, 
New,  as  provocative,  but  simply  rude, 
In  no  profusion,  spread  before  the  eye, 
But,  by  the  providential  care  of  God, 
Still  un-decreasing,  howsoe'er  consumed. 
Oh!  are  all  these  forgotten — can  they  lose 
These  blessings  of  their  birthplace,  and  the  joy? 
Of  that  superior  clime,  so  near  the  home, 


Cain.  51 


And  dwelling  place  of  peace,  and  joy,  and  Hea?' 
Lose  all  the  promise  of  the  morn — the  dream, 
Shed  by  the  poppied  tree,  whose  leaves  bestowed 
The  couch,  whereon,  at  noontide  sultriness, 
From  the  sharp,  brazen  arrows  of  the  sun, 
They  alumber'd  thro'  the  hour — can  they  forget, 
The  all,  that  Age  remembers  of  its  youth, 
Vet  weep  not?     Did  they  weep— the  weary,  lost, 
The  hco  upon  the  desert,  fearing  much, 
That  in  his  uttermost  extent  of  wrath, 
He,  they  had  so  offended,  had  withdrawn 
The  hand  of  his  protection,  and  no  more 
LookM  on  them  as  his  children,  nor  bestow'd 
The  presence  they  had  pet  at  nought,  but  gave 
Their  fortunes  to  themselves,  and  they  alone, 
Upon  a  desart — with  no  succour  near- 
Eden  shut  out  from  sight,  and  Night  with  brow, 
Cloud-mantled,  and  with  many  storms  enwrapt, 
Between  them,  and  their  lately-lost  abode— 
Before  them,  an  impenetrable  vast, 
Unknown,  and  undiscovered,  curs'd  and  detd, 
And  fruitful  only,  from  the  dropping  sweat 
Of  browt,  accustotn'd  to  a  canopy 
Of  pleasant  breezes,  unfatiguing  light, 
Fair  colours,  not  to  dazzle,  but  delight, 
And  nothing  ruder  than  a  cherub's  wing, 
To  fan  the  sunset  tangles  of  the  hair, 


5^  Cain. 

Now  doom'd  to  droop  with  moisture,  wrought  by  tc 
From  hard  endurance,  bitter  felt  fatigue, 
As  all  unknown — deep  and  excessive  heat, 
Chilling,  and  wintry  breezes,  and  the  wind, 
That  lifts  the  desert's  sands,  and  kills  the  waste. 
A  fiery  ocean,  tempest-wing'd  and  dread. 

Oh !  did  they  weep  ?  Look  on  them,  an  they  beud 
The  woman,  with  her  hand  above  her  eye, 
And  outstretched  neck,  and  arm  around  the  tall. 
And  manly  form  beside  her.     He,  with  hands, 
Clasp'd  mournful  on  his  breast,  yet  standing  firm, 
And  tho'  with  earnest  look,  yet  seeming  not 
O'er-anxious  to  discern  the  fading  home, 
That  now  shut  dim  and  darkly  in  the  East, 
Seemed  but  a  golden  strip,  lit  by  the  sword 
Of  winged  cherubim,  put  there  to  guard, 
The  dwelling,  which  their  hearts  still  occupied. 

She  rests  upon  him,  and  the  tears  come  forth. 
At  last  to  her  relief — the  redden'd  eyes 
Suffus'd,  he  clasps  her  to  his  breast,  and  she, 
Reprov'd,  by  his  look  of  tenderness, 
Lifts  the  long  hair,  that  on  her  shoulder  hangs, 
And  wipes  them  into  redness,  and  affects 
A  mournful  smile,  still  sadder  than  her  tears — 
Then,  in  a  measured  note  of  loneliness, 
She  spoke  her  sorrows,  in  his  musing  ear. 


Cain.  83 

Afflicted,  hut  not  wholly  desolate, 
Adam,  one  wealth  we  bore  from  Paradise; 
Not  stolen,  but  afforded  to  our  lot, 
Enough  to  keep  in  us  the  lo.'e  of  life, 
In  all  privation — pleasant  too,  and  well 
Considered,  to  become  the  substitute, 
For  much  of  the  vast  happiness,  we've  lost! 
Hast  thou  regarded  this,  or,  art  thou  fix'd, 
Determined  that  thy  sorrows  shall  Imve  way, 
To  keep  thee  in  the  practices  of  grief, 
That  thou  mayV  soon  receive  the  benefit, 
Awarded  us  in  that  dark  prophecy, 
Which  spoke  of  death, and  silence,  and  the  grave- 
Privation  from  all  feeling,  happiness, 
Or  anguish,  or  admixture  of  them  both; 
Annihilation  for  a  season,  still, 
Worse  than  whole  ages  of  confirmed  pain. 
Wilt  thou  not  share  with  me  this  happiness?— 
Then  wean  thee  from  thy  earnestness  of  grief, 
And  kindle  up  the  altar  left  to  us, 
Of  sacred  friendship,  and  domestic  love? 
Dost  thou  not  find  thy  every  sense  acute, 
More  comprehensive  now?     Is  not  thy  fear 
Extenuate — thy  hope,  of  what  is  yet 
Unknown  in  nature,  "harper  than  before— - 
And  hast  thou  not  a  feeling  le«s  at  large, 
Directed  to  one  point,  and  therefore  strong; 
7 


54  Cain. 

Unwandering  to  the  many,  dear  delights, 
Of  our  own  lost  inheritage  in  Hcuv'n. 

To  which,  the  man,  then  answering,  thus  replied 
Oh!  gracious  kindness  of  the  mighty  power, 
That  we  have  so  offended,  thus  to  give, 
His  sanction  to  the  feeling,  we  have  brought 
A  native  flowV  of  Eden,  thus  away — 
Domestic  Love!  I  feel  it  in  my  heart, 
I  gather  it  from  thy  rich  accent,  Eve, 
'Tis  strong  in  every  object  that  I  see- 
It  lives  in  every  feeling  of  my  frame — 
'Tis  of  our  life,  a  vital  principle, 
A  part  of  our  existence,  fairest  part! 
The  all  of  Eden,  that  we  dare  to  claim — 
Yet  sweet,  as  any  flower  in  Eden  nurst, 
Or  on  tho  borders  of  that  sacred  wave, 
Where  He  walk'd  forth,  at  morning,  to  behold 
That  all  in  his  creation,  still  was  good. 
Alas!  that  he  should  come,  and  we  should  fear 
His  holy  presence,  Eve!  alas!  alas! 
Yet  has  his  mercy  blcss'd  us,  tho'  denied 
The  home,  where  first  he  planted  us,  with  care; 
And  the  pure  feeling  of  affection  glows 
Warm  in  my  heart,  and  bids  me  not  despond, 
Since  it  assures  us,  he  beholds  us  still; 
And  our  first  sin,  our  only  sin,  tho'  deep, 
Has  made  us  not  the  outcasts  from  his  care, 


Catii.  5 

Wo  are  from  his  abode  of  blessedness — * 

I'nworthy  longer  to  remain,  or  dwell 

In  j>lacc  so  holy,  yet  not  all  unfit 

For  his  high  charge  and  tender  nourishment. 

The  Earth,  that  he  has  given  us,  to  till, 

And  occupy  at  last,  is  not  unkind — 

For,  while  stern  Justice  spoke  the  bitter  curse*. 

That  made  it  barren  in  its  stubbornness, 

Mercy  shed  many  tears,  and  softenM  it! 

To  bear  with  sorrow,  is  to  conquer  it, 

And  patiently,  tho'  sadly,  on  the  morn, 

1  will  begin  my  duty,  and  implore 

Our  gracious  Father — so  we  call  him  still, 

Albeit,  unworthy  children,  earth  to  bless, 

By  making  it  productive  to  my  hand — 

Meanwhile,  as  Day  no  longer  holds  his  lamp, 

And  grief,  and  many  tears  have  worn  thee  out. 

This  turfy  bed,  ia  soft,  and  the  green  leave*, 

Which  I  will  stiew  upon  it,  will  avail 

To  make  a  couch,  not  all  unmeet  for  us, 

To  our  condition  fit,  not  an  it  was, 

Nor  suited  then  to  us,  as  we  were  then, 

Yet  more  than  just  to  our  condition  now. 

Thus  saying,  from  the  pleasant  hill-side,  he 
Gathered  enough  of  bushes,  to  spread  forth 
The  humble,  not  uncomfortable  couch 
Of  the  discarded  children — and  abore . 


66  Cain. 

Some  larger  leaves  upon  a  bough  he  put, 
To  shelter  from  the  dews,  that  the  tirst  time, 
The  heavenly  people  wept  for  their  sad  lot — 
Then  on  it,  did  he  throw  his  manly  frame, 
And  she  beside  him  came,  and  laid  her  head 
Upon  his  bosom— God  who  all  beheld, 
Sent  down  his  messenger  of  sleep,  who  spread 
His  mantle  gently  o'er  them,  and  watch'd. 

Thro'  the  long  night  above  them,  till  the  morn. 

*        *         *         *         * 

A  season,  told  in  flow'rs,  had  pass'd  away, 
And  the  high  spirit,  once  again  invok'd, 
Reveul'd  the  picture  of  the  infant  time, 
Before  my  rapt  sense,  wondering  to  perceive, 
The  circumstance,  and  beauty  of  its  change. 
I  stood  upon  a  pleasant  spot  of  earth, 
IMaikM,  as  before,  with  many  incidents, 
Strong  feature,  and  development  of  point, 
To  fix  my  recollection,  as  the  same, 
Denoted  as  the  outcast's  exile  place; 
Hard  by,  the  walls  of  adamantine  fire, 
That  blaz'd  around  their  dwelling  place,  so  late- 
Lost  Eden,  to  their  children  lost,  thro'  them, 
'Till  He  restore  them  by  his  own  Son's  grace? 
But  ehe,  that  spot  of  exile,  were  unknown— 
So  chcng'd  in  that  short  season  to  my  view, 
Where  barrenness  had  cursed  it,  and  the  blight 


Cain.  51 

Of  an  unnatural  parent,  had  foredoom'd 
Steiile  defiance  to  the  shaft  or  hand  — 
IV a"  now,  thro'  man's  good  resolution,  brought 
Ohedient,  and  return'd  him  sustenance, 
Rich  fruits,  and  much  abundance.      It  was  nowj 
Near  cv'ning — and  the  fierce  light  of  the  sun, 
Was  mellowM  into  softness,  as  he  sunk 
In  Eden's  bosom — the  rich,  tinctured  clouds, 
Like  cherubims,  in  garments  finely  wrought, 
Of  many  colours,  and  fair  seeming  hues, 
Came  after,  in  attendance.     All  the  sky 
Was  gay,  with  the  profusion  of  fair  forms; 
Some  large,  and  proud  of  excellence,  supreme, 
Above  their  fellows,  in  attendance,  close, 
From  their  great  eminence — while  some  afar. 
In  more  reserved  seeming,  pressing  on, 
Modest, yet  confident,  and  winning  too, 
Albeit,  not  quite  so  richly  drest,  nor  full, 
In  such  proportion  of  great  size  or  shape, 
Some  delicate  and  faintly  utter'd  hues. 
All  the  Eastern  sky,  (save  here  and  there, 
A  speck  of  purple,  left  as  for  a  gift 
Of  fond  memorial  of  the  by-gone  hours) 
Secm'd  dark  and  gloomy,  as  it  mourn'd  to  lone 
Its  vigorous  companion,  and  first  spouse, 
NOW  won  to  the  embraces  of  the  west! 
The  Earth  had  grown  into  n  deeper  shade. 


58  Cain. 

And  pule  specks  'gan  to  steal  into  the  sky 
Cautious,  and  dreading  the  absorbing  sun — 
When  lo!  the  man — our  father — he,  it  was, 
Returning  to  his  homely  dwelling  place, 
On  yonder  green  slope,  where  the  red  light  hangs. 
As  if  reluctant  to  depart,  tho'  callM, 
Impatient,  by  the  still  up-glancing  Pay. 
Some  fruits  were  in  his  hand — some  pleasant  fruits- 
Sweeter,  because  the  sultry  day  had  wrought 
Tlio  sweat  from  his  broad  forehead,  as  he  toiPd 
In  that  still  petulant,  and  resisting  soil! 
Yet   vere  there  smiles  upon  his  sunburnt  brow 
Thut  grew  from  the  chcer'd  spirit,  that  within, 
Even  as  the  sun  went  down,  had  offer'd  up 
Hisev'ning  pray'r — accepted — for  the  form 
Of  God,  stood  ovrr  'gainst  a  pillcr'd  cloud, 
And, \\ithalightni  ig glance, shot  out  from  thence, 
SmilM  on  him  approbation,  mix'd  with  rule — 
Thus  mercy  tempers  .Justice — and,  yet  more, 
To  warm  the  wakeful  hope,  that  leapt  within 
The  heart  of  that  lone  man,  an  angel  stood, 
Beside  him,  as  he  left  his  place  of  toil, 
On  his  way  home,  and  gave  him  of  new  fruits, 
1'nknown  to  him  before,  and  pleasant  herbs, 
And  taught  him,  of  their  use  and  appliance, 
Culture,  and  mode  of  preparation,  all, 
Simply  and  sweetly,  by  which  Adam  knew, 


Cain.  69 

The  God  he  had  offended  was  his  God — 
And  he,  not  all  unworthy  to  receive 
His  care,  or  favour,  doubted  of,  before, 
By  conscious  weakness — so  that  Adam  came, 
To  his  low  cottage,  on  that  swardy  waste, 
And  the  deep  gloom  of  his  embrowned  cheek. 
Like  a  sad  sky  of  cloud,  impending  rain, 
Lit  up  by  sudden  sunshine,  bursting  through, 
Was  mixM  with  tenderness  and  happy  smiles. 
He  stood  by  his  low  cot,  and  she  was  there, 
The  one  of  his  affections — dcom'd  to  share 
Their  punishment,  and  with  a  pleasant  look 
Of  calm,  she  met  him  from  his  labour  come; 
Rejoicing.     In  her  arms,  she  gently  bore 
A  pair  of  chubby  infants,  hale  and  flush 
Of  health,  who  lay  and  nestled  at  her  breast, 
Inhaling  thence,  their  nourishment  and  life. 
Brown  labour  had  infused  into  her  frame, 
A  hardiness  that  mingled  in    with  much 
Of  her  first  sweetness  of  aspect,  not  lost, 
In  her  sad  downfal;  and  a  winning  grace 
Shone  in  the  calm  and  patience  of  her  look — 
Happy,  that  from  their  cottage,  discontent, 
Driven  out,  by  sweet  reliance  upon  God, 
Had  fled  the  little  valley  where  they  dwelt! 
•        «        *        *        • 

The  boys,  were  boys  no  longer.  They  had  grown, 


()0  Cain. 

In  that  beneficent  clime,  that  could  not  be 

Klsr  than  Hygeian,  bounding  clone  upon 

The  lost  abode  of  purity  and  bliss, 

Up  into  fair  proportion,  and  much  grace — 

Vigour  Herculean,  and  a  pleasant  case 

Of  limb  and  outward  seeming,  not  unmeet 

To  glad  the  eye,  and  satisfy  the  nice, 

And  close  observances  of  curious  taste. 

Manliness  stood,  a  native,  on  the  brow 

Of  him,  the  first  born.     In  his  dark  eye  shone 

Much  character — stern  fixedness  and  pride — 

A  restlessness  of  that,  which  bound  him  down, 

As  other  men,  in  seeming  ignorance, 

Yet  wiser  than  the  rest  of  earth  beside. 

He  lov'd  not,  that  his  toil  should  only  win 
The  bread  of  life;  and  marvelM  that  his  thought, 
So  searching,  and  far  wandering,  .should  return 
\Vithout  discovery.     IIo  look'd  beyond 
His  own  horizon,  bounded  to  a  span, 
Arid  long'd  for  other  regions,  unknown  lands, 
Deeming  imprisonment,  the  close  confine, 
Of  his  first  birth-place.   Thus,  with  thought  like  (hi 
And  dreams,  that  won  him  from  himself,  away, 
What  wonder  he  should  leave  the  compass'd  field. 
Appointed  to  his  labours.     Thus,  at  eve, 
As  from  the  place  of  toil,  returning  home. 
He  spoke  at  last,  with  weary  heart  and  sad. 


Cain.  61 

To  his  old  father,  in  respectful  word, 
l-mk'd  with  a  rugged  earnestness,  that  gave 
Assurance  of  determination,  made 
In  cool  reflection,  therefore  worthy  note! 

I  know  not  well,  my  father,  if  my  thought, 
Be  wrong  in  this,  hut  that  it  is  my  thought, 
Unforced,  and  of  his  own  accord,  from  God, 
I  may  not  question.     I  was  never  made 
To  grovel  in  the  earth,  and  dig  for  food, 
With  heart  so  wrought  like  mine,  that  ever  ppring* 
I'pward  to  hoav'n,  and  gathering  from  its  flight, 
A  newer  vigour,  'till  it  onward  soars, 
From  star  to  star,  and  thro'  each  bright  abode, 
Imagined  in  rich  dreams,  that  seldom  fly, 
Discovers  its  true  birth  place.     It  is  mine, 
I  feel  it  in  my  soul,  that  it  is  mine — 
Else,  why  this  anxiousness  to  soar  above 
This  dull  dim  earth,  this  barren  dwelling  place, 
Accursed,  even  by  our  toil,  accurs'd — 
And  more  than  curs'd  by  him  who  gave  it  us, 
Accursed  be  it  then,  as  'tis  accurs'd. 

But  Adam,  all  impatient,  stay'd  his  speech, 
With  interruption  brief — 

Accursed  not — 

Earth!  be  thou  blessed,  even  with  our  tears, 
And  labour.     Hear  not,  Oh  God,  this  boy — 
Spare  him,  for  ignorant  and  vain,  bis  pray'r 
8 


62  CViin. 

la  wrung  from  childish  spirit,  that  is  clipt 
In  its  observance,  and  beyond  the  time, 
Sees  not  thy  glorious  Providence  and  will! 
Kneel,  impious  boy,  kneel  Abel — kneel  with  mo, 
And  let  thy  humble  pray'r  undo  thy  rash, 
And  ill-advised  temper;  that  thou  may'st 
Stand  before  Heaven,  nor  feel  thy  idle  curse, 
Come  multiplied,  untemper'd  on  thy  head, 
That  cali'd  it  down,  on  that  which  given*  us  life* 
Hut  for  our  labour,  which  improves  the  good, 
By  teaching  us  its  value. 

I  will  kneel, 

My  father  with  you  now,  returned  the  boy, 
And  offer  up  my  pray'r  for  every  good, 
It  may  be,  that  you  would  he  thankful  for: 
And  chiefly  for  the  blessing,  which  has  made, 
Spite  of  your  destiny — that  rugged  fate, 
Which  I  ajn  free  to  say,  I  covet  not, 
So  well  content.     I  would  it  were  my  lot, 
To  own  a  spirit,  so  much  like  to  thine, 
Thav,  whatsoe'er  its  own  adventure,  wrong, 
And  wantonly-enforced  suffering, 
I  might  put  down  my  head,  and  in  the  dust, 
Lift  the  fine  ashes  from  our  clay-built  hearth, 
And  wrap  me  in  a  cloud  of  it,  and  cry 
For  other  punishment;  and  smile  p.nd  pray, 
To  find  the  pray'r  accepted,  and  new  pain 
Sent  down  to  gratify  the  humble  hi- art!—* 


Cam.  6& 

but  for  a  wrong  which  I  have  never  done, 
I  may  not  seek  forgiveness.     I  have  stood 
Upon  yon  mountain,  by  the  evening  light, 
IV here  thou  art  now  to  offer  sacrifice, 
And  if  I  pray'd,  I  pray'd  not  for  myself, 
For  I  had  nought  to  pray  for.     But  I  piay'd. 
That  Ue,  the  almighty,  powerful,  severe, 
Inflexible  in  judgment,  should  not  hold 
The  cloudy  front  of  his  full  countenance, 
Upon  you  and  my  mother,  and  the  young  boj 
That  stands  beside  you,  with  enclasped  hands, 
And  eye  of  upturned  tenderness,  and  calm — 
I  pray'd  that  you  might  feel,  as  now  you  feel3 
Contented  with  your  lot,  and  not  like  me, 
Be  doom'd  to  inborn  conflict  with  the  soul, 
Too  proud  to  own  allegiance,  or  bow  down 
For  privilege  to  labour  and  to  sweat, 
For  bread,  whose  sweetest  sustenance  is — tears; 
And  meat  of  lambs,  that  cry  with  plaintive  tone, 
More  sad  and  tender  than  your  saddest  pray 'r, 
"When  you  do  rob  them  from  the  piteous  dam, 
Whose  bleatings  611  the  tent,  e'en  while  the  feast, 
At  her  poor  heart's  expeoce,  is  going  on. 
What  I  have  pray'd  for  then,  I'll  pray  for  now-* 
Your  happiness,  my  mother's,  brother's,  mine, 
Whatever  that  happiness  may  be.     'Tis  well 
That  we  should  thus,  conciliate  the  power, 


04  Cain. 

Since  'tis  the  pow'r  alone  that  bids  us  pray, 
To  whom  we  can  oppose,  nor  force  nor  guile, 
Nor  arbitration  strong — but  all  submit, 
In  quietude  and  meekness — mercy  comes 
Alone  from  power,  my  father  bids  me  say — 
We  ask  no  mercy,  where  we  see  no  power, 
And  own  no  crime,  where  punishment  is  none, 
Or  else  defiance  strong,  we  offer  up, 
In  token  of  our  hardihood  of  heart, 
And  utter  shamelessncss  and  scorn — kneel  down 
Abel,  my  brother,  we  will  kneel  and  pray. 

Thus  saying,  knelt  he,  by  his  brother's  side, 
And  Adam  bow'd  his  head — awhile  they  prayM 
Aloud.     Adam,  unto  his  tirst-born,  at  the  close, 
Thus,  his  fond  thought  deliver'd. 

Cain,  my  sou, 

The  air  is  tainted  thou  abideat  in — 
Nor  is  that  purer,  that  encircles  us, 
And  thus  we  need  the  incense,  to  remove 
And  purify  our  evil  dwelling-place. 
Bad  spirits  are  about  us,  day  and  night, 
Watching  our  guardlussness,  and  still  alert 
In  momentary  absence,  to  entrap, 
And  rob  us  of  our  future  heritage — 
Therefore  the  name  of  God  should  be  a  spell, 
Borne  with  us  in  our  solitude — his  word  • 
A  sacred  garment,  wrapt  about, 


Cain.  G5 

Our  else  unguarded  loins;  nnd  gentle  thoughts, 

And  purity  and  faith  should  fill  our  heart??, 

To  fit  us  lor  the  company  of  Cod, 

And  the  pure  angels,  that  we  sometimes  meet, 

Beside  us,  in  the  forest — such  as  he 

That  sent  thy  mother  roots,  by  Abel's  hand, 

When  she  was  sick,  which  wrought  her  health  again. 

Forbear  thy  thoughts,  rny  son — thy  evil  thoughts, 

For  pride  is  evil,  and  the  proud  in  licait, 

Bow  down  in  shame,  unless  they  guard  themselves. 

Let  us  upon  our  awpy — the  winds  of  eve, 

That  wait  upon,  and  usher  in  the  night, 

Arc  bringing  us  the  perfume  of  the  flow'rs, 

That  grow  in  Eden — and  the  song  of  birds — 

Ye  hear  my  boys,  that  lonely  one,  that  seems 

To  sing  apatt,  from  all  the  merry  ones — 

Now,  do  ye  hear  the  melancholy  strain? 

O!  ever  thus,  that  gentle-toned,  sad  bird, 

Would,  sound  at  night,  the  warning  note,  that  shut 

The  delicate  young  flow'rs,  and  warn'd  us  two, 

Thy  mother  and  myself,  to  seek  the  shade 

Of  our  o'er-canopied,  secluded  bow'r. 

I  cannot  now,  so  far  forget  my  wont — 

Tho'  long,  since  it  was  taught  to  meet  my  car, 

And  tell  me  of  my  duties — but  even  now, 

With  that  sweet  song,  i  shut  the  day-light  out, 

And  woo  the  cheering  sleep,  and  dream  of  Eden. 


ASHLEY  RIVER. 


"The 

Heaves,  darkly  boiling  from  below— 
To  him,  there's  muaic  in  in  flow, 
For  there  he  latent,  and  he  Hands, 
With  fixed  rye,  and  clasped  hut  da  " 

J.  W.  SIMM  out 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


I  have,  in  the  following  Poem,  rather  indulged 
in  my  own  mental  and  personal  associations,  than 
in  any  effort  to  give  a  local  picture.  Many  pas 
sages,  however,  which  might  have  had  that  effect, 
have  been,  for  obvious  reasons,  expunged  for  the 
present.  At  some  future  day  they  may  be  res 
tored. 


ASHLEY  RIVER. 


I. 

Flatter  me  not,  with  visions  like  to  these — 
Too  well,  my  friend,  you  know  the  pow'rto  please/ 
The  winning  accent,  and  the  friendly  tone, 
Make  me  all  yours,  when  I  am  scarce  my  own! 
And,  when  desponding — trampled  by  some  new 
And  stern  atflirtion;  staring  on  my  view — 
"When  weary  even  with  life,  this  narrow  life, 
Where  all  is  bitterness,  and  much  is  strife, 
I  fain  would  pause,  nor  battle  for  my  breath, 
But  seek,  and  find,  some  peace,  at  last,  in  death--* 
You  come  with  friendly  smile,  and  gaily  dress, 
Some  newer  phantom  up,  of  happiness; 
Paint  fairy  prospects,  green,  and  flushty  with  light/ 
And  hide  tho  frost  and  winter  from  my  sight; 
Arouse  the  dying  spark  of  hope,  anew, 
And  dress  the  night,  with  moonlight  and  with  dew' 
You  win  me  back  to  struggle,  and  to  gain 
Some  newer  agony,  to  crush  ray  brain/ 


70  Ashley  River. 

Some  blight  unlookM  for,  and,  the  more  severe, 
As  you  have  made  me  dream,  that  none  was  near. 

II. 

How  little  do  they  know — the  crowd,  the  throng, 
The  curse,  and  madness,  that  abides  with  soug! 
That  fatal  destiny,  which  bids  us  turn, 
To  where,  the  altars  of  the  Muses,  burn; 
Commands  us,  light  our  torches,  at  a  flame, 
From  which,  nor  waimth,  nor  lustre  can  we  claim, 
And,  when  wo  dream,  our  fires  are  kindled  quite, 
Obscures  the  blaze,  and  tramples  it  from  sight! 
And  thou,  even  them,  who  best  can'st  comprehend 
The  Poet's  nature,  as  thou  art  his  friend — 
Thou,  who  hast  taught  me,  that,  not  all  unknown, 
My  song  has  been,  though,  known  to  thee,  alone, 
Even  thou,  art  all  unmeet  to  learn  the  pain. 
When  the  heart  watches  o'er  the  slumbering  brain, 
Beholds  the  mad,  unquiet  of  that  hour, 
When  Fancy's  spectres  own  redoubled  pow'r, 
And  rouses  up  her  train  of  shadowy  forms, 
To  shake  tbo  sleep  of  agony,  with  storms, 
Or,  keep  the  abject  Muse  awake,  and  weep, 
When  all  the  world  is  happy,  and  asleep! 
What  hopes  are  his,  who  dare  explore  the  lyre— 
What  smoky  clouds  assail  his  waywurd  fire— 
What  dreams  incite,  of  glory,  or  of  gain, 


Jlshley  River.  71 

To  fly,  at  last,  and  leave  him  hut  to  pain? 
Now  taught  by  Friendship,  and  now  won  by  praise, 
The  laurel  swells  before  his  falcon  gaze — 
Glory  invites  him,  with  enticing  eye, 
And  blue-vein'd  charms,  to  tread  her  starry  sky- 
Fame  seeks  his  couch  by  night,  and  weaves  the  dew- 
Undoubted  sentence,  of  the  future  year, 
And  thro'  the  mists'of  coming  time,  reveals 
The  bay-crown'd  statue,  till  his  vision  reels, 
And  he  awakes  with  raptures  all  hia  own, 
To  find  his  dream,  a  dream — his  statue,  gone! 

III. 

Yet,  must  I  sing — the  destiny  which  gave, 
The  pow'r  of  song,  and  made  me  all  its  slave, 
Still  drives  me  on,  pursuing  and  pursued, 
Alternate  won,  the  wooer  and  the  wooed. 
Doom'd  me  to  find  in  every  change  or  shade, 
Some  fearful  Tyrant  that  must  be  obey'd— » 
Bade  roc  but  live  on  sunshine,  yet  on  high, 
Hung  with  a  pitchy  mantle,  all  the  sky — 
And  fill'd,  with  strange  influences,  the  cloud, 
And  wrapt  in  dust,  and  gloom,  and  heat,  the  crow    — 
And  when  my  heart  was  delicate,  and  frail, 
Ordain'd,  it  should  depart  before  the  gale, 
Unfitted  all,  to  combat  with  the  breeze, 
let  doom'd  to  struggle  with  the  rebel  seas— 


72  Ashley  River. 

Sent  it  abroad,  all  rudderless,  to  strain,       ~ 
For  the  far  port,  it  may  not  reach  again!          / 
Wrought  by  that  fatal  doom,  from  whence,  the  dow> 
Of  song  first  came,  a  wild,  and  tearful  pow'r, 
The  unrelenting  toil  is  still  my  own,  ; 

To  tread  the  weary  wilderness,  alone —       .      ' 
To  shrink,  with  sensitive  tenderness,  from  lift, 
And   find  in  man,  the  harbinger  of  strife;          / 
Feel  every  breath,  as  fatal  to  the  bloom, 
Of  that  rich  flow'r,  we  leave  upon  our  tomb,     • 
And  dread  with  strange  inquietude  and  bile, 
The  bad  man's  sneer,  the  cold  man's  scorn  or  smile. 
Yet  will  I  sing — and  tho'  with  song,  there  be, 
But  little  pride,  and  far  less  sympathy — 
Tin)'  Fame,  for  which  the  Minstrel's  heart  beats 
If  seen  at  all,  is  ouly  seen  to  fly —  [high, 

And  jealousy,  and  biiter  malice,  stand 
Ready  to  crush,  with  rais'd,  united  hand, 
And  song  be  one  dark  struggle  to  attain, 
The  shallow  meed,  that  life  can  seldom  gain- 
Yet  will  I  sing — and  tho'  the  day  be  far, 
When  mine,  shall  be  the  glory  of  a  star, 
Still  to  beam  on  in  splendour,  to  the  last, 
When  thou,  and  1,  my  friend,  and  all  are  past-* 
*Tis  a  proud  destiny,  that  dares  to  die, 
For  the  far  gloom  of  Immortality! 


Ashley  River.  73 

IV. 

Lo!  from  the  horizon's  verge,  declining  day, 

CaMs  his  rod  shadow  o'er  the  rippling  bay; 

On  high,  the  dark  wave  leaps,  ere  light  he  gone, 

To  hail  one  smile  from  the  departing  sun; 

While  in  the  dark  blue  vault,  the  fleecy  rack, 

Of  thronging  clouds,  attending  on  his  track, 

Form,  in  a  gorgeous  canopy  of  light, 

Each  hue  that's  lovely,  and  each  ray  that's  bright ! 

Blandishing  ministers',  more  sweetly  pure, 

As  we,  their  lustre  better  can  endure, 

Than  him,  their  monarch — whence  alone,they  claim 

Their  heav'n  of  hue,  and  more  than  world  of  flame — 

Still  to  the  last,  though  lost  to  mortal  eyes, 

He  leaves  behind,  his  garniture  of  dyes; 

And  the  stars  glow,  and  the  pale  moon  appears 

In  the  blue  vault,  and  all  his  light,  is  theirs. 

V. 

Here,  as  the  day  declines,  the  lonely  heart, 
May  sigh  to  lose  its  being's  richest  part — 
Those  glories  of  the  aerial  world,  which  seem 
To  wild-eyed  Fancy,  HeavVs own op'ning  gleam, 
While,  from  the  silvery  vestment  of  the  sky, 
Eternal  splendours  burst  upon  the  eye, 
Revealing,  shaded1  by  a  mystic  veil, 


74  dshley  River. 

The  wonders,  drearopt  of,  in  enthusiast's  tale— 
Those  1 1  unsieut  glimmerings,  where,  devotion  sees 
The  long-lost  garden,  and  the  living  trees — 
Rich  bow'rs,  whose  maidens,  wooing  to  their  arms, 
Soft  a§  their  homes,  eternal  as  their  charms, 
Sing  those  enticing  airs,  which,  like  the  tree, 
That  blooms  forever,  in  fair  Araby,         [boughs, 
Tempts  the  young  Pilgrim,  slumbering  'neath  its 
To  leave  his  duties,  and  forget  his  vows; 
Discard  the  affections  of  his  native  shore, 
.\nd  deem  his  journey  done,  his  labours,  o'er. 

VI. 

Yes — wrapt  in  mists  of  darkness,  which  pervade 

Even  Fancy's  own  domain  of  light  and  siiade, 

Even  now,  these  glories  vanish  from  the  sky, 

And  leave  the  soul  of  Solitude,  to  sigh! 

Sigh,  that  even,  these,  the  last  on  earth  to  cheer, 

So  brightly  dark,  so  languishingly  clear — 

Whose  mellow'd  tints,,  dispooed  in  tasteful  pride, 

The  deep  and  light,  with  equal  pow'r,  divide; 

So  well  arranged  to  soothe  the  soul  of  grief, 

And  lend  it  sympathy,  if  not  relief, 

Should  thus  so  soon  depart,  and  leave  no  trace 

Of  morning  glory,  or  of  ev'ning  grace. 

Beautiful  Ashley!  when  I  firnt  ossuy'd, 

The  lyre's  rude  song,  as  on  thy  banks,  I  stray 'd, 


jlshlcy  River.  75 

How  came  young  Hope,  with  gentle  smiles  supplied, 
To  bless  my  dreams,  p.nd  wander  by  my  side! 
How,  o'er  the  past,  did  playful  Memory  run, 
And  sweet  the  joys,  from  recollection,  won! 
The  swift  ascent  to  manhood's  warmer  glow, 
That  youth,  repining,  ever  deems  too  slow — 
The  flowVs  that  deck'd  the  wayside,  as  I  came, 
And,  as  a  first  discoverer,  dar'd  to  name— 
The  kindred  heart,  that  smiPd,  when  others  frown'd, 
And  she,  the  loveliest  of  the  circle  round, 
Whose  sudden  glance,  like  stars  of  shooting  flame, 
Brought  melancholy  gladness,  where  they  came — 
These,  when  the  ascent  was  gain'd,  young  Memory 

brought, 

As  fadeless  records,  to  the  book  of  thought — 
To  these,  gay  Hope,  a  winged  wanderer,  threw 
A  future  world — more  bright — but  not  BO  true! 

VII. 

Here  on  these  banks,  my  roving  thought  portrays, 
Anew,  the  scenes  of  long-forgotten  days; 
Not  those,  forsooth,  wherein  I  bore  apart, 
What's  dear  to  Fancy's  foreign  to  the  heart — 
But  where  my  young  Imagination  rove*, 
To  those  glad  walks  and  brave  and  arching  groves. 
Where  Nature,  wild,  and  stag-eyed,  as  at  first, 
Upon  the  tenant  of  the  forest  burst; 


70  Jlshley  River. 

Reveal'd  the  shady  tract,  and  fertile  lawn, 
Where  kepi  the  hill-fox,  or  reposed  the  fawn- 
Taught  him  the  neighbouring  forest-depths  to  scan 
Its  wildest  labyrinth  and  maziest  plan, 
Untrod  by  any  lord,  save  him,  who  gave 
Freedom  to  all,  nor  made  the  brute  his  slave; 
Nor  slew  with  wanton  hand — nor  idly  bent, 
His  springy  yew  in  careless  lavishment, 
But  moderate  still  in  want,  that  slew  no  prey, 
Save,  what  that  want,  instructed  him  to  &lay! 
There,  where  the  savage  dwelt  in  native  pride, 
And  scurn'd  the  world,  or  knew  no  world  besid* 
The  wild  and  desert  loneliness  of  place, 
At  once  the  grave,  and  dwelling  of  his  race, 
In  simple,  rude,  ungraciousness  of  life, 
Yet  full  of  hospitality  and  strife; 
Ready  to  war,  as  ready  to  obey, 
The  dictate  of  the  prophet  and  his  sway — 
Slave  to  the  passion,  which,  himself,  he  made, 
And  wrought  the  Tyranny,  himself  obey 'd— * 
Piactia'dto  draw  the  bow,  and  spring  at  dawn 
To  meet  the  grey-eyed  Day  upon  the  lawn, 
Begin  his  journey,  ere  the  blush  of  day, 
'Nor,  for  the  gloom  of  ev'ning's  shade,  delay — 
Assiduous  to  explore,  intent  to  view, 
The  march  of  earth,,  and  prove  its  courses  true, 
From  the  grey  bark,  depict  his  journey  'a  track, 


.fahley  River.  77 

Nor  find  a  need  to  pause  or  turn  him  back — 
Careless  of  danger,  ready  to  endure, 
Rich  in  the  employ,  which  keeps  him  ever  poor', 
Too  much  in  love  with  Heav'n's  fresh  airs,  to  creep 
Beneath  a  cell,  when  the  broad  tempests  sweep 
Their  mighty  wings  across  the  wide  expanse, 
At  once  their  own,  and  mind's  inheritance — 
Taught  from  his  cradle,  bravely  to  resign 

\  The  life,  which  pain  forbids  him  to  repine; 

i  Bound  to  the  stake,  to  emulate  his  sire, 
Triumph  thro'  life,  and  triumphing,  expire: 

!  With  a  proud  song  of  vengeance  satisfied, 
I/eera  his  life  nobly  spent,  who  bravely  died. 

VIII. 

The  day  is  past — the  glories  of  their  prime, 
The  morning  freshness  of  the  infant  time, 
tls  gone  with  the  proud  Savage,  and  no  trace 
Tlemai.is  of  forest  shade  and  simple  race. 
How  dark  the  destiny,  that  swept  away, 
Men  wild,  but  gentle,  innocent  as  they, 
'Till  not  the  slightest  trophy  do  we  claim, 
But  that,  which  tells  their  fortune,  in  our  shame. 
And  this  broad  stream,  thiff  Poet-stream,  no  more 
Rolls  back  their  tones  of  vigor  to  the  shore, 
Where,  by  the  hamlet  side,  the  Indian  maid, 
4t  ev'ning  stood  beneath  the  old  tree'fl  shade. 


*8  Ashley  River. 

vSurveying  her  boy-lover,  as  in  view, 
lie  urged  the  arrowy  prow  o!  his  canoe, 
Across  the  leaping  waters,  that  between, 
His  heart  and  idol,  rear'd  their  living  green. 
How  dark  to  Fancy  seems  the  picture  left 
To  him,  of  the  old  solitude  bereft — 
The  silent,  solemn  sweetness  of  the  waste, 
With  the  rude  birch  canoe  upon  its  breast, 
And  the  slant  sunbeam  gilding  all  the  way, 
MarkM  by  his  prow  upon  the  parting  spray, 
That,  now  in  jagged,  dull  confusion  tails, 
On  dens  of  brick,  and  miserable  walls, 
Dimming  with  gloomy  shadows  the  pure  stream, 
That  once  was  rich  and  redolent  with  the  beam — 
Sent  from  the  sunlit  forest,  where  the  breeze 
At  ev'ning,  threw  his  weary  limbs  at  ease, 
Or,  with  light  pinion,  curfd  the  streaming  sea, 
With  a  strange  music  of  festivity. 

IX. 

"Now  what  is  here  to  meet  the  gazer's  eye, 
Let  science,  and  the  'march  of  mind,'  reply — 
Why  Lucas'  mills,  the  team  boat  and  the  quay, 
W  here  cockney  sportsmen  crowd,  at  break  «»i  day. 
With  double-barrellM  gun,  perchance  to  shoot, 
In  case  they  meet  with  s<  me  unlicenc'd  brute. 
Thus  nothing  wild  escapes  the  modern  rage. 


Rivct\  7& 

A  hundred  years  before  the  bygone  age — 
Our  lathers  shot  the  wild-men,  and  their  sons, 
A  more  improved  and  better  race  of  Huns, 
Slio.it  do\vn  the  wild-fowl,  with  percussion  guns. 
And  lo!  the  dirty  wood  boat,  with  a  crew 
Of  fowls  for  market — eggs  and  bufter  too — 
With,  now  and  then,  a  something  to  retrieve, 
The  loss  of  that,  I  must  confess  I  grieve-^ 
In  the  rough  negro  boat-horn,  heard  by  night, 
When  the  wind's  wanton,  and  the  moon  is  bright, 
And  the  stars  watch  above  the  sleeping  sea, 
Winding,  alone,  upon  the  Corigarcq. 

X. 

Few  years  have  pass'd,  sweet  river — and  no  more, 

The  playful  boy  that  wander'd  by  thy  shore,        » 

In  many  a  prank  and  gambol,  onco  again, 

I  watch  thy  waters  leaping  to  the  main! 

Time  hath  brought  change,  upon  his  rapid  wing,  . 

And  life's  dull  seasons,  are  no  longer  spring—     - 

The  young  associates  of  my  early  day, 

Are  dead,  or  scattered  widely,  far  away— r 

Some  are  in  foreign  lands,  ordainM  to  toil, 

For  life  or  wealth,  upon  a  niggurd  soil; 

The  vSea  hath  one  I  loved,  and  wild  storms  sweep 

O'er  a  proud  form  now  bleaching  in  tho  deep, 

That  in  the  athletic  gamo  Ivns  link'd  with  rninc-r- 


81)  dshley  River. 

The  first  I  loved,  the  last  I  shall  repine, 
For  no  affection  like  that  first  strong  yoke, 
Shall  life  have  pow'r  to  knit,  as  death  has  broke! 
And  I,  the  last,  less  lov'd,  and  youngest— one, 
Doom'd  from  the  first,  in  life,  to  move  alone; 
Scorn'd  for  the  weakness,  which  became,  at  length, 
More  than  the  pride,  and  all  the  pow'r  of  strength; 
Whose  passions  ever  roused,  untaught  to  bend, 
Confirm'd  the  doubtful  shook  the  steadiest  friend — 
Unused  to  kindness,  so,  that,  when  it  spoke, 
A  world  1  knew  not,  o'er  my  bosom  broke, 
And  all  the  tears  that  pride  had  stay'd  so  long, 
Frozen  by  bitterness,  restrained  by  wrong, 
With  cataract  might'  thro'  their  dark  prisons  swept, 
Kach  rock  o'erborne  that  held  them,  and — I  wept. 
I  had  not  wept  in  sorrow — had  not  shed 
One  tear  of  anguish,  when  I  watch'd  the  bed, 
Where,  lay  affection's  earliest  idol,  dead! 
Coldness  butsteel'd  me,  firmer  to  despise, 
Unkindness  loosed,  still  more,  all  human  ties, 
And  taught  me,  tho'  the  child  of  nature,  still, 
That  I  was  free  to  love  or  hate,  at  will! 
That  Nature  was  the  kindest — bul  beguil'd, 
Too  long,  by  man — believing,  when  he  smil'd, 
That  truth  was  in  the  blandishment,  I  gave 
My  heart,  to  each  deceit,  still  more,  a  slave, 
*Till  torn  at  length,  by  frequent  wrong,  I  grew, 


.'Ishley  Hirer.  81 

Tho'  born  to  love,  a  stern,  proud  hater  too, 
Vnd  every  stream  of  natuie,  in  my  soul, 
Scal'd  with  eternal  snows,  refused  to  roll! 
Love  burst  the  fountain — Love, whose  magic  breath. 
Can  cheer  the  shade,  and  soothe  the  pain  of  death — 
Whose  rosy  hand,  pervading  earth's  wide  gloom, 
Plants  the  young  flow'r  of  rapture  on  the  tomb — 
To  the  far  pole,  where  endless  winters  sway, 
Imparts  a  sun,  that  compensates  the  day; 
And  thro*  the  night,  whose  matchless  beams  appear, 
Warming,  o'er  snowy  peaks,  the  polar  year — 
Love  broke  the  ice-bound  regions  of  my  heart, 
And  bade  his  day  appear,  his  night  depart! 

XL 

Sweet  waters  of  my  youth!     I've  tried  the  song, 
With  early  themes,  but  used  to  sorrow  long, 
They  mingle  with  strange  discords,  and  repeat 
Aught  but  the  notes,  my  lonely  heart  deems  sweet. 
Fond  recollections,  swelling  with  thy  wave, 
How  different  now,  from  what  my  boyhood  gave — 
Tears  have  cmbitter'd  the  pure  streams  of  truth, 
And  robb'd  the  bloom  and  promises  of  youth! 
Lo!  in  dim  visions,  on  the  wafry  wild,      [smilM 
Now  dark  with  clouds,  where  nought  but  sunbeam 
Behold  the  Past,  with  all  its  innocent  wealth, 
Its  grateful  store  of  luxury  and  health: 


HJ  .Ishley  River, 

ilapturo  wild  bounding,  whose  delirious  dreams, 
Warm,  frr>m  the  Persian'*  land  of  tloxv'rs  and  beams. 
In  fairy  pictured  hues,  o'er  boyhood  throng, 
Waking  him  up  to  luxury  and  song — 
Bright  skies  appear  in  sunniness  and  glow, 
With  fairy  radiance,  o'er  the  world  below, 
And  all  that's  rich  in  nature,  strong  in  joy, 
Shines  without  tarnish,  beams  without  alloy. 
There  comes  a  darker  picturing,  with  these, 
Like  hell-born  monster's  over  sunlit  seas, 
Where  halcyon  quiet  broods,  on  gossamer  wing, 
And  nierniuiciU  wake,  in  coral  groves,  to  sing. 
'Tis  the  dark  features  of  the  present,  cast, 
To  cloud  the  future  and  destroy  the  past; 
Obscure  each  glory  of  my  early  day, 
And  blight  my  soul,  and, tear  its  hope  away! 
Tinge  over  waters,  wild  and  fresh  before — 
Skies  whose  rich  brightness,  won  me  to  adore — 
Scenes  whose  extremes!  loneliness  was  dear, 
With  gloom  ajid  sorrow,  blackness  and  despair! 

XII. 

Imago  of  sadness — sadness  of  the  heart, 
I  weep  to  watch,  yet  tremble  to  depart, 
Sadden  the  more  1  see  thy  leaping  swell,  - 
Vet  feel  my  sadness,  when  I  say,  farewell — 
I  werp  not  in  thy  change — tbou  art  the  same, 


JSJ  Jshlcy  Kivcr. 

As  when  at  first,  I  learned  to  lisp  thy  name. 
And  thy  full  waters  roll'd,  P:>  now,  along, 
All  purely,  deeply,  vigorously  strong, 
And  not,  that  bursting  full  upon  my  view, 
I've  found  that  false,  which  Fancy  swore  was  true- 
Not  that  the  athlete  died  at  sea,  and  lay, 
Where  Mexico  still  roll*  his  tideless  hay, 
And  se:t-hirds  spread,  and  sea-nymphs  watch  his 

grave, 

And  the  cold,  midnight  winds,  his  requiem  rave; 
Nor,  that  in  distant  regions,  there  are  some, 
Whom  Hope  oft  hrings,  and  Truth  delays  to  come. 
To  bless  the  weary  eyes  that  wake  at  home — 
Not  these,  not  all — tho  man  to  Fortune  bear, 
Each  human  engine,  that  may  claim  a  tear — 
Tho'  blear-eyed  Hatred,  ready  to  devise 
The  rack  for  that,  it  never  can  despise — 
Tho'  Malice  slander,  and  tbo'  Folly  bring, 
And  lend  to  higher  agony,  its  sting — 
'Till  now,  I  wept  not — nor  could  these  impart, 
That  woman  softness  to  the  bursting  heart, 
Demanding  tears,  from  eyes,  that  could  not  weep, 
Whose  streams  were  silent,  a*  their  tides  were  deep. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


"The  unibrgotten  music  of  sad  dr*AnM." 

OLD  PLAT. 


It 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  collection)  forms  but  a  very  small 
portion  of  the  fugitive  pieces,  which  have  been 
gathering  on  my  hands  for  the  laut  two  years.  I 
have  scarcely  any  thing  to  offer  in  their  behalf. 
In  common  with  the  preceding  pages,  they  have 
grown  out  of  hours,  which  the  reader  may,  or  may 
not,  consider  thrown  away.  They  appear,  gen 
erally,  as  originally  written — I  huve  neither  the 
disposition  to  improve,  nor  the  courage  to  destroy 
them. 


APRIL. 


April  Month — it  is  the  time 
When  the  merry  hirds  do  chime, 
Airy  wood-notes,  wild  and  free, 
In  secluded  bow'r  and  tree — 
IVaking  up  in  sunny  gear 
The  attendants  of  the  year, 
^Vhatso'cr  they  chance  to  be, 
In  green  dress  and  livery. 
Roving  wind,  whose  rosy  mouth, 
OdourM  by  the  sunny  south, 
Presses,  as  it  onward  flies, 
Beds  of  many  luxuries. 
Skimming  o'er,  as  it  doth  pass, 
Pearly  dew  on  bladcd  grass — 
budding  flow'rs,  that  ope  to  gain 
Some  sweet  homage  from  his  train, 
And,  with  blushing  lips,  inclose 
Riches  of  Arabian  rose. 
Season  of  fantastic  change, 
Sweet,  familiar,  wild  and  strange— 


April. 

Time  of  promise,  when  the  leal, 
Has  its  tear,  but  not  of  grief — 
When  the  winds,  by  nature  coy, 
Do  both  cold  and  heat  alloy, 
Nor  to  either,  will  dispense 
Their  delighting  preference — 
Season,  when  the  earth  puts  forth 
All  the  wealth  that  she  is  worth, 
When  the  tree,  all  flush  of  fruit, 
Clothes  himself  in  motley  suit, 
And  the  waters,  woods  and  sky, 
Hear  the  summer's  first-born  cry— 
Pleasant  sound,  that  speaks  of  time, 
When  all  nature's  early   prime, 
Had  no  shadow,  knew  no  chill, 
To  o'ertop  the  sunny  hill, 
Where,  kind  spirits  came  to  bless 
Young  creation's  loveliness! 

April  Month— what  doth  it  bring     • 
In  the  promise  of  the  spring — 
Rich  profusion,  not  to  pall 
But  to  bless  and  honor  all! 
Fruits  to  tempt  the  urchin's  eye 
To  the  summer  drawing  nigh, 
When  with  heart,  whose  beat  is  mirth 
Leaps  he  o'er  the  laughing  earth— 


April. 

And  his  look  ia  full  of  haste, 
And  his  lips  speak  fresher  taste, 
And  the  smile  of  victory, 
Twinkles  in  his  roguish  eye — 
Looks  he  now,  with  spirit  deep, 
Where  the  mocker's  young  ones  keep, 
Happy  to  secure  the  spoil, 
Meet  reward  for  all  his  toil! 

'Tis  the  season  of  the  year, 
When  the  fairies  first  appear, 
Tn  the  cowslip  and  the  rose, 
Dancing,  ere  iheir  petals  close, 
To  the  music  of  the  breeze, 
Sweetest  of  all  melodies, 
'Ncatli  the  moon's  ascending  blazo, 
That  trims  the  forest  with  her  rays, 
And,  in  melancholy  mood, 
Silver-laces  all  the  flood! 
Then  they  sport,  and  who  but  they 
Happy  in  such  infant  play,. 
Tossing,  in  their  random  rout, 
Flow'rs,  and  leaves,  and  fruits  about! 
Now  upon  a  lily's  breast 
Seeming,  in  a  mimic  rest, 
Om  reposes,  glad  to  bo 
Absent  from  her  company, 


90  April. 

For  she  there  can  dream  of  him 
\Vhose  departure  keeps  her  dim.— 

'Tis  hy  sentence  of  their  king, 
That,  until  the  Lily  spring 
From  the  green  and  velvet  ground. 
Her  boy-lover  must  he  bound 
In  the  bosom  of  a  tree, 
Hidden  from  their  harmony — 
Cruel  Oberon,  to  part 
Sun  and  fiow'r — heart  and  heart! 
But  they  soon  shall  meet  again, 
For  the  gentle  wind  and  rain. 
Have  beer,  busy  ail  the  night, 
Bringing  summer's  train  to  light — 
And  the  fairy  maid  shall  hear 
Preampt-of  language,  in  her  ear. 

Now  she  dreams  that  he  is  free 

Underneath  the  green  bay-tree, 

That  beside  her  lifts  his  boughs, 

That  receive  the  lover's  vows — 

lie  so  oft  has  heard  them  spoken 

And  so  often  seen  them  broken, 

Much  he  wonders,  men  should  give  them- 

Women,  credulous,  believe  ..hem. 

She  wakes,  and  joy  is  in  her  eye — 


April.  91 

On  the  ground,  she  doth  espy     . 

That  same  flow'r,  whose  first  appearing, 

Brings,  to  her,  the  time  of  cheering — 

And  she  laughs,  for  by  her  side 

Stands  he,  in  his  boyish  pride — 

And  the  happy  people  round, 

Glad  to  see  the  boy  unbound, 

Leap  in  gay  festivity, 

From  green  bush  and  budding  trecf 

Now  upon  a  moon  beam  riding, 

\Vith  the  star  of  eve  abiding, 

They  attend  her  single  motion, 

As  she  passes  o'er  the  ocean — 

Bent  for  hidden  islands,  where 

Mortal  barks  can  never  steer — 

All  is  rapture  in  their  flight 

Melody  and  speaking  light. 

There  they  gather,  void  of  care, 

From  the  happy  world,  so  near, 

Glowing  heaven,  leaping  sea, 

Thoughts  of  untouch'd  harmony! 

Many  a  shell  is  wound  to  night, 

Many  a  mermaid's  bow'r  is  bright, 

As  her  lover  leaps  to  sight, 

On  a  moonbeam,  in  a  flow'r 

Leaping  to  her  sea-wrought  bow'r. 

ID  the  wild  and  witching  houi, 


92  April. 

Stars  are  filled  with  newer  pow'r, 

Heavenly  odour  in  the  shower! 

Happy  race!  that  may  explore 

Sounding  sea  and  hidden  shore — 

Fill  the  sky  with  leaping  forma, 

Win  from  stars,  and  suns,  and  storms — 

\Vho  so  happy  in  the  sky, 

And  its  home  of  purity — 

"VVho  so  happy  in  the  air, 

V(  ith  the  sad,  heart-music  there— 

IV ho  that  skims  the  ocean — dwells 

]Mid  the  notes  of  thousand  shells — 

Far  beyond  the  storm-God's  pewV, 

In  the  wave  wu&h'd  coral  bow'r— 

As  the  race,  thus  let  to  pierce 

All  the  secret  universe, 

And,  before  the  time  is  given, 

IV ii»  the  happiness  of  heaven! 

April  Mouth!  throughout  the  year, 

"\Vliat  with  thec,  can  well  compare — 

TVheie  thedu),  whose  dewy  sweetness, 

And  the  night,  whose  touching  iieetuesft, 

And  the  s*ky,  whose  purer  splendor, 

And  the  iiovv'r,  whose  petal  tender, 

Charming,  kow^xcVr  they  be, 

April  Mouth!  cau  mate  with  thee? 


NIGHT-WATCHING. 


iMy  heart  has  been  a  wanderer — It  has  sigh'd 
For  the  far  converse  of  the  wilderness, 
And  sought,  on  Fancy's  wings,  the  fairy  grove, 
Whose  leaves  are  chords  for  music,  turn'd  to  tone, 
E'en  by  the  rudeness  of  the  Zephyr-Gdd, 
Whose  wing  detach'd  them  from  the  delicate  stem, 
Singing  their  death-song  falling:     It  has  been 
Pent  up  in  cities,  'till  it  burst  the  bonds, 
The  cold  bonds  of  society,  and  sprung 
On  mid-day  wing,  to  re-assert  its  own, 
Unbounded,  eagle- world  of  Immortality! 

The  city  is  around  me — but  its  din 
Is  hueh'd  to  silence — what  a  god  is  sleep, 
That  can  so  chain  the  faculties  of  men, 
The  buiy  crowd,  so  turbulent  erewhile, 
Some  three  hours  hence,  and  now  so  sternly  still, 
It  teems  some  eastern  city  of  the  Dead! 

Where  is  the  artizan  whose  hammer  clink'd 
On  the  fire-darting  anvil,  thro'  the  day  ? 
12 


94  Night-Watching. 

The  pedlar,  who  was  vaunting  o'er  his  wares, 
His  worldly  wealth  about  him — rich  withal  ? 
The  tradesman  conning  o'er  his  daily  sales 
TVith  eager  eye,  and  scent  upon  the  watch, 
Not  to  be  over-bargain'd? — where  the  youth, 
Eager  for  honor  and  distinction,  won 
By  noisy  declamation  in  the  crowd, 
About  the  forum? — all  are  sunk  in  sleep! 
Sleep,  the  restorer  of  the  sick  man's  pulse, 
Bringor  of  pleasant  dreams  and  airy  thoughts, 
That  while  away  the  fever'd  toils  of  earthy 
And  give  a  bounding  impulse  to  the  blood, 
Distemper'd  by  the  noise-oppressed  brain! 
Thou  second  part  of  life — that  art  a  death — 
Refitting  for  a  newer  start  in  life, 
And  nerving  with  a  freshness,  all  but  me! 

In  vain,  I  look  upon  the  pensive  Night, 
That  hangs  her  silver  crescent  on  tl.e  sky, 
Gather 'd  on  fleecy  folds,  that  edge  the  blue, 
Of  her  vast,  wild,  pavilion'd  canopy, 
And  wears  it,  as  a  warrior  does  his  shield, 
Unstain'd  by  dark  device,  or  mortal  dint, 
And  pure  and  spotless,  as  a  vestal's  heart, 
Upon  the  hour  she  gives  herself  to  God! 
There  is  no  breath  to  waken  up  the  leaf, 
That  sits  within  my  window— all  is  still — 


Wight- Watching.  95 

And  how  oppressive  grows  that  *t illness  now! 
I  cannot  sleep — a  spirit  in  the  air, 
Tho'  with  the  day's  fatigue,  my  form  ia  faint, 
Keeps  me  from  slumber.  Thought,  undying  thought, 
That  dost  pervade  life's  farthest  wilderness, 
Why  may  I  not  repose,  with  those,  who  take 
The  freshness  of  her  slumbers: — why  within, 
My  restless  soul,  still  sounds  the  silvery  chord, 
That  thrills  forever  sensibly  with  life, 
Reminding  me,  untiring  of  the  claim 
It  bears  to  immortality — the  life, 
That  is  for  ever  present  in  my  dreams, 
That  bears  me,  with  a  meaning  impulse  on, 
Spite  of  the  rough  adventure  of  the  time, 
The  jostle  of  far-lighted  emulation, 
To  look  beyond  myself,  and  fondly  dare 
Converse  with  high  intelligence,  and  power 
Beyond  man's  frail  existence. 

Do  the  stars 

Break  forth,  with  fuller  energy,  to  me, 

That  thus  I  wake  to  watch  them?  Is  the  moon 

Peculiar  in  her  gaze  to-night  ? — Her  glanco 

Rests  on  my  very  couch,  and  by  my  side, 

Swelling  the  drapery  with  long  shady  waves 

Fantastically  wrought  by  fancy's  art, 

To  mate  and  people  all  the  dreaming  hour! 


96  Wight- Watching. 

And  now  a  silvery  train  is  drawn  afar, 
Like  a  faint  thread,  upon  the  utmost  verge 
Of  the  horizon,  as  if  it  would  unite 
The  earth  I  wake  on,  and  the  heaven  I  watch. 
It  is  the  star  of  my  nativity — 
What  wonder  I  should  wake,  to  watch  it  then, 
With  a  deep  fixedness — a  strong  anxiety, 
To  gather  from  its  seeming,  all  my  hope — 
Ambition's  peril — titter  gods  than  men, 
Which  lives  unto  the  peril  of  the  life 
Which  is  my  mortal  being — wearing  away 
Consuming  as  a  night-lamp,  dim,  untrimm'd, 
The  frame  and  sinews,  of  the  wither'd  form, 
The  lowly  boor  had  laugh'd  at — Lo!  afar, 
It  shoots  along — and  sheds  in  its  lone  flight 
A  rich  and  tremulous  lustre.     Does  it  wake 
In  sympathy  with  me,  alone,  among 
Its  starry  train  of  rich  intelligences, 
As  I,  among  my  fellows  of  the  earth? — 
Ilestless,  alike — and  does  ambition  dwell 
So  high  above  the  mortal  part  of  life? 
I've  heard  it  said,  ere  this,  in  ancient  time, 
When  gods  were  on  the  earth,  in  guise  of  men, 
And  men  in  action,  rivall'd  the  high  gods, 
That  't-vas  the  quality  of  heaven,  and  so 
Became  transmitted  to  the  humbler  race, 
With  whom  they  lightly  mingled,  and  to  whom, 


Night- Watchiilg.  *>7 

They  gave  such  sad  inheritance  of  pride, 
High  reaching,  fierce  desire,  unbounded  want, 
Love  of  far  rule,  undying  thirst  of  praise, 
And  power,  and  hope,  and  searching  after  sway, 
Thro'  peril  and  foul  circumstance,  and  blood — 
Heedless,  that  pain,  and  death  were  in  the  gift, 
Tho'  coupled  with  high  honor — fatal  death, 
That  saps  the  springs  ot'life,  of  love,  of  peace. 
Eats  out  the  heart  with  a  concealed  fire, 
And  leaves  the  desolate  wreck,  blasted,  as  'tis, 
By  the  fierce-fires  of  Spirit,  overthrown, 
E'en  by  the  pitiless  breath  of  wind,  it  scorns! 

Oh!  what  is  Fame,  that  I  should  darken  youth — 

The  fresh  attire  of  Morning — the  gay  sun, 

Of  my  young  destiny,  that  scem'd  so  fair, 

With  watching  thro'thc  night — the  sweet, long  night. 

That  fills  my  eyes  with  gentle  drops,  to  see — 

Sweet,  tho'  they  flow  from  out  the  fount  of  tears, 

Upon  my  heart,  like  dew  upon  the  flow'r, 

In  Ciermon's  valley!  Doth  to  it  belong, 

Acknowledgment  'mong  men,  in  words,  whose  tone. 

Like  music,  ministers  unto  the  spirit, 

Whose  watchfulness  is  madness?  No,  alas! 

Nor  Time  himself,  shall  venture  to  retrieve, 

The  hlb  that  I  have  lost!  Yet,  be  this  told, 

In  after  years,  when,  at  my  fireside  blaze, 


US  JVtjgAt-  Watching. 

No  chair  shall  be  in  waiting  for  my  form, 
No  eye,  to  smile  at  my  unlook'd  approach, 
No  welcome,  mine— however  he  hath  fail'd 
To  gain  a  planet's  fix'd  sway  in  the  sky, 
'Mong  the  high  fires  that  he  so  oil  hath  watch'd, 
The  star  still  burnt  within  him,  and  the  ray 
Shone  o'er  him,  with  a  splendor,  that  he  sougJ 
Most  nobly,  tho'  perchance,  he  reachM  it  no 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

I. 

Not  in  the  sky, 

Where  it  was  seen — 

Nor,  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistering  wave — 

Nor  in  the  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep — 

However  green, 

In  its  enamell'd  caves  of  mystery — 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

\  place — nor  once  again  proud  station  keep! 

II. 

Gone,  gone! 

O!  never  more,  to  cheer 

The  mariner,  who  hold  his  course  alone, 

On  the  Atlantic,  thro'  the  weary  night, 

When  the  waves  turn  to  wa'chers,  and  do  sleep — 

Shall  it  appear — 

With  the  sweet  fixedness  of  certain  light, 

Shining  upon  the  shut  eye  of  the  blue  deep? 


100  The  lost  Pleiad. 


III. 

O!  when  the  shepherd  on  Chaldea'*  hills, 

Watching  his  flocks, 

Looks  forth,  in  vain  for  thy  first  light  to  come, 

Warning  him  home — 

From  his  deep  sleep,  among  the  sky-kiss'd  rocks — 

How  shall  he  wake,  when  dewy  silence  fills 

The  scene,  to  wonder  at.  the  weight  of  night, 

Without  the  one  strong  beam,  whose  blessed  light, 

As  to  the  wandering  child,  his  native  rills, 

Was  natural  to  his  sight! 

IV. 

Vain,  vain! 

O!  less  than  vain,  shall  he  look  forth — 

The  sailor  from  his  barque — 

(Howe'er  the  North, 

Doth  raise  his  certain  lamp,  when  tempests  lower 

To  catch  the  light  of  the  lost  star  again — 

The  weary  hour, 

To  him,  shall  be  more  weary,  when  the  dark 

Displays  not  the  lost  planet  on  her  tower. 

V. 

And  lone 

Where  its  first  splendor,  shone — 


The  lost  Pleiad.  101 

Shall  be  that  pleasant  company  of  sta:s:— » 

How  should  they  know  that  death, 

The  happy  glory  of  the  immortal,  mars, 

When  like  the  Earth,  and  all  its  common  breath, 

Extinguished  are  the  pare  beams  of  the  sky, 

Fallen  from  on  high — 

And  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony 

Snapt  rudely,  and  all  pleasant  music,  gone. 

VI. 

A  strain — a  mellow  strain, 
Of  parting  music,  fill'd  the  earth  And  sky^- 
The  stars  lamenting,  in  unborrowed  pain, 
That  one  of  the  selectest  one's,  must  die— 
The  brightest  of  their  train! 
Alas!  it  is  the  destiny — 
The  dearest  hope  is  that  which  first  is  lost, 
The  tendorest  /lower  is  soonest  nipt  by  frosts- 
Arc  not  the  flhortest-lrved,  the  loveliest— 
And  like  tke  wandering  orb  thtt  leares  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  brigfrtest,  when  nbout  to  fly, 
The  desolate  spot  they  blest? 


SUMMER  If  XGHT-  W 1 JU  l>. 


How  soothingly,  to  close  the  sultry  day, 
Comes  the  soft  breeze  from  oft'the  murmuring  wuve 
That  break  away  in  music — and  1  feel, 
As  a  new  spirit  were  within  my  veins, 
And  a  new  life  in  nature.     My  hot  frame, 
Awakes,  from  the  deep  weariness,  that  fell 
Upon  me,  like  a  cloud.     A  newer  nerve 
Braces  my  unwearied  eye-lids,  and  I  gaze, 
And  feel  the  gentle  whisperings  of  night, 
Lifting  the  hair  upon  my  moisten'd  brows, 
AB  if  a  spirit  faun'd  me.     Slowly,  at  fits, 
The  wind  ascends  my  lattice,  and  climbs  in, 
And  swells  the  shrinking  drapery  of  my  couchjj 
Then  melts  away  around  me,     Now  it  comes, 
Again,  and  with  a  perfume  in  its  wake, 
Gathered  from  spicy  gardens.     Some  fair  maid, 
Knows  not,  who  robs  her  roses  of  their  sweets, 
"When,  at  the  morn,  she  finds  them  drooping  low 
From  their  nocturnal  amours.     Is  it  not, 
A  gentle  providence,  that  thus  provides. 


Summer  Night-  Wind.          103 

With  odour,  like  to  this,  the  unfavored  one, 
Who  else,  had  never  known  it.     Pleasant  breeze, 
Misfortune  well  may  love  thee — thou  hast  fled 
From  gayer  regions — lofty  palaces, 
Fair  groves,  and  gardens  of  nice  excellence, 
To  wanton  with  the  lonely.     It  is  meet 
That  he  should  leave  his  couch  to  welcome  thee, 
Thou  art  most  lavish,  and  thou  should'st  not  steal 
Thro'  a  close  lattice,  with  but  half  thy  train, 
When  he  would  gather  all  of  thee,  and  feel 
Thy  energies  around  him.     Thou  art  sweet — 
And  comest,  with  a  mournful  whispering, 
That  speaketh  a  glad  music  to  the  heart, 
Jarr'd  by  long  restlessness,  and  out  of  tone, 
From  the  distemper'd  and  oppressive  heat, 
Of  the  long  day  in  summer.     I  will  sleep, 
Beneath  my  window:  Thou  meanwhile,  wilt  come, 
And  fan  thy  wings  above  my  throbbing  brow, 
And  put  aside  the  tangles  of  my  hair, 
"With  a  mysterious  kindness.     And  I  know, 
That  when  thou  bringest  me  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Thoif  It  bear  away  my  sighs,  and  bring  them  back, 
Laden  with  comforters,  from  fairy  groves, 
That  fling  away  their  loveliness  to  theer 
That  they  may  win  thee  to  the  same  embrace. 
Thou  dost  bestow  upon  me,  as  I  sleep. 


THE  STARS. 


"Look,  wretched  one,  upon  the  stream  that  rolleth  by  the 
dwelling  of  thine  old  age,  and  thou  vill  behold  the  very  stars 
that  have  shone  on  thoe  in  thy  boyhood.1* 


Let  me  look  on  the  stars.     They  bring  me  back, 
With  strange  persuasiveness,  to  the  old  time, 
And  pleasant  houra  of  boy  hood.     All  returns, 
That  I  had  long  forgotten.     Scarce  a  scene, 
Of  childish  prank  or  merriment,  but  comes, 
With  all  the  freshness  of  the  infant  year, 
As  'twere  an  atom  of  some  yesterday. 
The  green,  remembered  at  the  winter  night, 
For  the  encounter  of  the  rapid  ball — 
The  marble  play,  the  hoop,  the  top  and  kite, 
Each,  in  its  regular  season,  has  its  time 
In  the  revival  of  my  boyhood,  then! — 
And,  as  the  yeais  flew  by — as  I  became 
Warmer,  and  more  devoted — fix'd  and  strong— 
Growing  in  the  affections,  when  1  ceased 
To  grow  in  stature  or  proportion — then, 


The  Stars.  105 

When  life,  in  all  its  freshness,  darted  by, 

And  voices  grew  into  a  spell,  that  hung, 

Thro'  the  dim  hours  of  night,  about  the  heart, 

Making  it  tremble  strangely — and  blue  eyes, 

Were  stars,  that  had  a  power  over  us, 

As  fated,  dimly  at  nativity — 

And  older  men,  were  monitors,  too  dull 

For  passionate  youth — and  reason, and  all  excellence 

(Bating  the  honied  sentences  of  lips, 

That  may  have  vied  with  coral,  nnd  have  won) 

Were  to  be  gathered  from  one  source  alone, 

Whoso  thought  and  word  were  inspiration,  life— 

That  we  had  bartered  life,  itself,  to  lose! — 

And  that  hcart-madnrss  that  belongs  to  youth,  • 

That  spell  upon  affection — thut  deep  light, 

Which  makes  all  other  objects  dark,  or  fills, 

Absorbs,  or  crushes  out  each  other  light, 

Is  on  us,  as  a  dream,  that  binds  us  down, 

And  takes  our  reason  from  us:     When  all  these, 

Have  been  with  us,  and  carried  us  away, 

To  strange  conceits  of  future  happiness, 

But  to  be  thought  on,  as  delusions  nil, 

Yet  such  delusions  as  we  still  must  love — 

When  these  have  parted  from  us — when  the  sky, 

Hath  lost  the  charm  of  its  etherial  blue, 

And  the  nights  lore  their  freshness,  and  the  trees, 

No  longer  hare  a  welcome  sound  for  love— 


100  The  Star*. 

And  the  moon  wanes  into  a  paler  bright — 

And  all  the  poetry  that  shook  the  leaves. 

And  all  the  perfume  that  was  on  the  flower*, 

Sweetness  upon  the  winds,  light  in  the  sky. 

The  green  of  the  carpetted  vale,  the  dew, 

That  morning  hangs  on  the  enamel'd  moss — 

The  hill-side,  the  acclivity,  the  plain — 

(Sweeter  that  Solitude  was  sleeping  there) 

Arc  gone,  as  the  last  hope  of  misery — 

When  the  one  dream  of  thy  deluded  life, 

Hath  left  thee,  to  awaken — not  to  see 

The  pleasant  morning,  hut  the  gloomy  night, 

When  sight  hecornes  a  weariness,  and  Hope, 

No  longer  gathers  from  its  barren  path, 

One  flow'r  of  promise — when  disease  is  nigh, 

And  all  thy  bones  are  racking,  and  thy  thought, 

Is  offoul,  nauseous,  ineffectual  drugs, 

Which  thou  will  take,  altho'  thou  know'st  in  vain— 

And  not  a  hand  is  nigh  to  quench  thy  thirst, 

With  one  poor  cup  of  water — and  thy  thought 

Is  of  the  fading  sky,  and  the  bright  sun, 

Which  thou  art  losing — and  the  sable  pall, 

And  melancholy  carriage,  and  of  those, 

Who  but  acquire  thee  now,  when  thou  art  lost, 

And  only  weep  for  that,  which  thou  dost  leave — 

And  thou  hast  bid  adieu  to  earthly  things, 

Fought  thro'  the  last,  long  struggle  with  thyself, 


The  Stars.  107 

Of  resignation  to  extremes!  death) 
And  ortcrM  up  thy  pray'r  of  penitence, 
Doubtful  of  its  acceptance,  yet  prepared, 
As  well  as  thy  condition  will  admit, 
For  the  last  change  in  thy  unhappy  life — 
Look,  if  thou  canst,  from  thy  closed  lattice  forth, 
And  take  thy  farewell  of  .the  calm  blue  sky; 
And  if  the  melancholy  stars  be  there. 
Then  will  the  current  of  thy  thoughts,  flow  back, 
To  the  fair  practice  of  thy  innocent  childhood, 
And,  if  thou  hast  been  wretched,  thou  will  weep 
Over  thy  recollections—and  thy  tears, 
Shall  be,  as  a  svfeet  pray'r,  vent  up  to  lleav'n 

•' 


STANZAS  TO  IDA. 


I. 

Sweet  Ida,  now  upon  the  oca, 

And  far  from  land)  and  darting  on, 
I  feel  how  much  I  lose  in  thee, 

And  cheerless,  watch  the  sun  go  down. 
He  seta  behind  the  distant  shore, 

Which  I  have  left,  and  where  thou  art; 
And  all  is  dark,  my  path  before — 

I  lose  my  light,  I  leave  my  heart? 

II. 

Thou  may'st  not  watch,  when  I  am  gone — 

Thou  will  not  weep  my  absence  now— 
Thou  art  not,  like  myself,  alone, 

And  hast  no  chill'd  or  aching  brow. 
Many  will  watch  thy  weary  hours, 

And,  should  disease,  with  venom'd  breath. 
Enter  thy  gay  and  happy  bow'rs, 
Will  chase  away,  and  conquer,  death. 


Stanzas  to  Ida. 


III. 

For  me,  alas!  what  hopes  arise, 

What  prayers  ascend,  to  bless  my  fate— »• 
Shall  mine  be  calm  and  breezy  skies, 

Or,  docs  the  stroke  of  wo,  await! 
I  sit  upon  the  bounding  bark, 

And  strike  my  lyre  of  wo,  to  thee — 
The  clouds  come  down,  the  night  is  dark, 

And,  moans  aloud,  the  sullen  sea! 

IV. 

According,  with  my  loneliness, 

How  sweet  its  .nurmura  are,  to  me! 
The  voice  of  storms,  the  sea's  distress, 

Than  music's  song,  unless  with  thee! 
0!  could  I  send  my  thought  abroad,- 

To  touch  thy  soul,  or  meet  thine  ear, 
Thou'dst  see  those  passions  all  outlaw'd, 

That  winds  now  mock)  and  waters  hear. 

V. 

On,  with  the  broken  lyre,  and  heart, 
Thou  bark  of  destiny,  away — 

Swift  as  thy  shooting  prow  can  part, 
The  whistling  winds  and  mounting  spray 
14 


110  Stanzas  to  Ida. 

Ah!  little  reck'at  thou,in  thy  flight, 
The  song  I  pour  upon  the  sea; 

And  thou  wilt  hail  the  morning's  light, 
Anil  I— oh,  Ida,  aught  but  thee. 


DIRGE  OF  THE  LEAVES. 

The  leaves, 

The  pleasant  and  green  leaves,  that  hung 

Abroad,  in  the  gay  summer  winds,  are  dead — 

And  earth  receives 

The  last  of  their  brown  honors,  idly  strung, 

On  the  old  stems,  to  which,  they  fondly  clung, 

Within  her  bed — 

I  marvel  that  their  last  dirge  be  not  said! 

The  breeze,  shall  sing  it,  as  he  leaves  the  main, 

To  scour  the  plain; 

And  goes  to  rest  among  »he  tall,  old  trees; 

How  will  he  sigh,  with  pain, 

To  find  his  evening  couch  of  luxuries 

Wither'd  upon  the  ground,  where  he  hath  lain. 

Oh!  then, 

With  a  deep  mournfulness,  and  plaintive  fall, 

Shall  he  lament, 

That  they  are  cast  awa;  ,  beyond  his  call, 

And  he  not  present  at  their  burial— 


112          Dirge  of  the  Leaves. 

Nor,  to  prevent 

The  eager  frost  from  coming  down  that  gleu. 

Thus  sings  he,  in  his  grief, 
The  last  lament  above  the  wither'd  leaf: 
*O?  never  more, 

Unburied  honors  of  the  pilgrim  year, 
Shall  ye  in  all  your  morning  dress  of  greeu 
Appear! 

The  summer  time  is  o'er, 
That  we  have  seen — 
And  all  your  early  loveliness,  how  brief! 
I  shall  forget  ye  on  some  other  shore, 
.But  o'er  your  fruitless,  melancholy  bier, 
I  leave  my  tear.' 

Away! 

After  that  brief  lament  he  spreads  his  wmgg, 

The  licensed  rover  of  far  Indian  seas — 

Now,  that  the  hidden  charm  that  led  astray, 

No  longer  clings, 

With  blossoming  odor,  wooing  his  wild  flight; 

And  to  the  sunset  dwelling  of  the  day, 

With  the  sad  form  of  Night, 

Speeds  on  his  way  that  melancholy  breeze! 


THE  LAST  I:EAr. 


I. 

It  was  the  last  of  all  the  leaves,  that  Spring  in  rick 

array, 
Had  sent,  in  plenitude  of  power,  to  woo  his  young 

bride,  May — 
When  the  Sun,  at  morning  rose  and  shone,  without 

a  single  cloud, 
And  the  pale  cold  Moon,  at  night,  alone,  walk'd 

consciously  and  proud; 
It  hung  upon  a  pleasant  tree,that  now,  was  stripp'd 

and  bare, 
And  it — of  all  its  family,   the  last,  and  saddest 

there — 
Thus  sung  it,  in  a  mournful  tone,  while  winds  were 

sighing  by, 
And  the  cold,  November  nights  came  down,  'neatli 

a  bleak  and  wintry  sky. 

II. 

-I  am  the  last  of  all  my  race — I've  seen  my  breth 
ren  Cade — 


Jll  The  Last  Leof. 

The  bright  ones,  I  no  longer  trace,  that  once  these 
boughs  array 'd: — 

There  wasa  spirit  in  the  air,  upon  the  gentle  morn, 

When  I,  and  all  my  brethren  there,  in  dewy  green 
were  born, 

That  shook  its  fragrant  wings  around,  till  light 
from  every  bough, 

StreamM  o'er  the  green  and  mantled  ground,  that 
ia  so  lonely  now — 

And  summer  leaves,  and  summer  birds,  com 
mingling,  fill'd  the  sky, 

So  bright — ye  saw,  and  deem  ye  not,  'twas  cruel 
they  should  die? 

III. 

"•Theirs,  were  the  sunny  hours — they  grew,  when 
mocker-mimics  throng, 

Our  green  and  mantling  branches  through,  to  war 
ble  forth  each  song; 

And  many  a  shining  insect  came,  and  many  a  bird, 
whose  note, 

Of  morning  vigor,  nought  could  tame,  on  evening 
airs  to  float, 

When  thro'  our  forms  at  eventide,  the  icy  moon 
beams  come, 

And  fairy  shapes  are  seen  to  glide,  when  human 
sounds  are  dumb, 


The  Last  Leaf.  J15 

Singing  those  mournful  madrigals,  too  fine  for 

mortal  ear, 
But  which,  at  whispering  intervals,  it  was  our  lot 

to  hear. 

IV. 
"Mine  was  the  fate  to  see  them  bloom, in  fellowship 

and  pride — 
Mine  was  the  eye,  beheld  their  tomb — would,  with 

them,  I  had  died! 
For,  not  a  bird,  now  comes  to  make  his  shelter  in 

my  boughs, 
And  gentle  lovers  now  forsake  the  spot  that  heard 

their  vows — 
The   roving  Zephyrs  too,  that  came,  with  roset 

breath  and  bloom, 
Now  scorch  me  with  a  blast  of  flame,  or  chill  me 

o'er  with  gloom; 
And    sad,    I   watch,   in  lonesomeness,  the  dark 

ground  bleak  and  bare, 
Or,  strew'd  with  shapes  I  love  not  less,  than  when 

they  comrades  were. 

V. 

"Oh!  soon  §hall   come  the  darker  hours,  and  I 

shall  be  with  them, 
The  green-eyed  leaves,  the  rose-lipped  flowers, 

long  shaken  from  each  stem — 


116  The  Last  Leaf. 

Last  night,  a  Tempest  shook  around,  the  branches 
o'er  my  head, 

And  whirl'd  my  brethren  from  the  ground,  that 
long  since  had  been  dead — 

And  well  I  knew,  the  boding  came,  to  warn  me  to 
prepare, 

A  fellowship  with  them  to  claim, beyond  all  chan 
ges  here, 

And  all  the  streams  of  life  withdraw,  and  colder 
I  become, 

No  breeze  shall  woo, no  sun  shall  thaw,  and  now" — 
the  leaf  was  dumb! 

VI. 

That  night,  a  Tempest  shook  the  wood,  the  mut 
tering  sky  was  dread, 

And  he,  who  heard  that  last  leaf  sing,  well  knew 
that  it  was  dead — 

Yet,  came  he  at  the  morning's  dawn,  and  stood 
beneath  the  tree, 

And  look'd,in  vain,  for  it  was  gone,  that  latest  leaf 
to  see; 

But  in  the  tree  there  was  a  bird,  at  intervals  that 
sung, 

And  mournful,  were  the  notes  he  heard,  from  that 
strange  warbler's  tongue, 


The  Last  Leaf.  117 

And  much  he  mused  upon  the  strain,  in  after  sea 
sons  long — 
'The  leaf  shall  meet  its  race  again,'  the  burden 

of  that  song' 


MORNING  IN  THE  FOREST 


I. 

The  forest  hath  a  sweet  and  mournful  tale, 
In  its  green  foliage,  and  whispering  breeze, 

That  sighing,  with  a  wild,  unearthly  gale, 
Maketh  soft  music  with  the  tall  old  trees; 

A  solemn  blending  of  the  passing  hour, 

With  gentle  themes  and  accents  of  strange  pow'r. 

II. 

And  morning  comes  among  them,  with  a  still, 
And  gliding  mystery,  on  the  breaking  grey, 

Of  the  fresh  East;  and  the  low  murmuring  rill, 
Is  strongest  heard  as  ushering  in  the  day, 

Who,  mounted  on  his  chariot  of  fire,       [spire. 

Makes  the  tall  forest  glow  with  many  a  burning 

III. 

This  is  a  spot — if  there  hath  ever  been, 

As  ancient  ballads  tell,  in  legends  sooth, 
Such  forms  as  are  not  earthly,  earthward  seen, 


Morning  in  the  Forest.         119 

With  shapes  of  light,  and  terms  of  endless  youth, 
Then  do  I  ween,  that  this  should  be  the  spot, 
Where  they  should  come — and  yet, I  see  thorn  not! 

IV. 

And  fancy  hath  been  with  me,  to  deceive 
The  sterner  reason  of  my  sense,  and  show 

To  youthful  expectation,  forms  that  live, 
Buf  in  the  fttiry  Ian4  of  eld    I  trow; 

For  here  they  come  not,  the'  I  hnv«  bowM  down, 

From  ev'ning  till  the  grey-eyed  morn  came  on. 

V. 
And  sure  no  fitter  spot  had  ftttry  s»o«*ght, 

To  pnrtnu  Urr  light  gambol  in — thr  grass, 
Glowing  like  gorgeous  cutyttlry,  tnwroflght, 

Doth  the  poor  hand  of  humble  art  surpass — 
Nature,  hath  sure  boa*  laboring  here,  to  spread, 
Meet  couch,  and  puiple,  for  poctk  bod. 

ir. 

And  I  will  Uy  me  down*— *fKS  if  fije^e  come 
Wo  fnirf  to  delight  m%  with  her  £0n^, 

There  is  a  marvd  in  the  retiring  gtourt, 

That  will,  m-miwr-Fnnry'fl  tho^glit,  prolong 

A  spiritual  pretovtte,  AM-  nbro*d, 

His  work*  around  mo — I  havo  been  with  Cod 


STAXfZJLS  TO  IDA. 
I. 

To  leave  thee,  when  my  hope  is  gone, 

Might  well  demand  a  tear, 
Did  I  not  know,  that  there  are  none, 

Who  would  esteem  it  dear : — 
This  mournful  thought  to  memory  clings. 

That  all  its  hopes  may  be, 
Like  healing  pow'r,  in  sealM-up  springs, 

That  none  may  find  or  see! 

!» 
II. 

A  bird  is  on  the  bough  at  night, 

And  mournful  is  its  tone; 
It  tells,  that  ere  the  morning's  light) 

It  shall  be  left  alone! 
That  the  young  mate,  whose  purple  wing, 

Had  with  it,  skim'd  the  seas, 
Is  in  the  sky,  a  dibtaut  thing, 

And  sporting  on  the  breeze. 


Stanzas  to  Ida.  121 


Hi. 

That  lone  one,  left  behind,  to  make 

Its  fortune,  tried  in  vain, 
Will  ne'er  by  bow'r,  or  covered  lake, 

Find  that  young  wing  again! — 
On  tallest  pine-tree  pcrchM,  it  looki, 

When  morning's  glance  is  fair, 
And  'inongst  the  leaves,  and  in  the  brooks, 

To  find  its  shadow  there! 

IV. 

Across  the  deaert,  it  has  braced 

Its  sad  wing,  tc  pursue 
The  fitful  shadow,  seldom  traced, 

But  ever  held  in  view. 
Ere  morning's  buskins  brush  the  dewsr 

It  journiea  on  its  flight; — 
Where  will  it  gather  food,  or  choose 

Its  resting  place,  by  night! 

V. 

The  lone  one  sat  within  a  tree, 

A  pleasant  tree,  I  ween, 
For,  there  the  breeze  came  wooingly, 

Among  the  branches  green; 
And  from  a  stream,  that  ran  below, 


122  Stanzas  to  Ida, 

Came  up  a  pleasant  sound; 
Like  voices,  long  forbid  to  flow, 
Now  glad  to  be  unbound ! 

VI. 

"Thy  heart  is  weary,  not  thy  wing—- 

Why  dost  thou  not  pursue 
O'er  earth  and  sea,  the  kindred  thing 

To  which  thy  birth-plume  grew! 
Thy  plumage  will  have  lost  ita  grace, 

Thine  eye  its*  sunny  light, 
Unless  thou  tak'-t  thy  morning  race, 

And  mak'jt  tb/  bow'r  at  nigkt. 

. 

VII. 
"The  world  has  many  forests,  leaves 

Innumerable,  shroud 
Thy  form;  the  eye,  that  fvr  tm e  grieves 

Will  look  not  in  the  crowd: — 
Ascending,  in  the  far  blue  sphere, 

The  highest  in  thy  spring, 
Go  up!  the  bright,  blue  heaven  is  there, 

And  meet  thy  kindred  wing. 

VIII. 

•'All  day  hath  it  the  ocean  funn'd. 
On  pinion  weariless, 


Stanzas  to  Ida.  123 

And  now,  as  it  doth  seek  the  land, 

Do  tliou  be  there,  to  bless! 
Its  spirit,  like  tbiue  ewn,  will  se«k 

The  ev'ning  sun's  descent, 
\nd  when  thy  winj  grows  weary,  weak, 

Thou  shall  Ue  still  un*p*mt! 

IX. 

•'And  if  thy  fortune  baffle  thee, 

And  thou  shalt  find  it  not,— 
Be  glad,  for  that  thy  destiny, 

Hath  so  decreed  thy  lot. 
For  disappointment  shall  bo  hush'd, 

And  thou  no  more  be  sad, 
And  the  weary  spirit,  once  so  cruah'd 

Shall  yet  be  more  than  glad!" 

X. 

Thus  spoke  the  spirit  of  that  brook- 
In  accents  to  my  ear, 

But  vainly,  might  my  bosom,  look 
For  tones  of  comfort  there! 

How  worse  than  idle  is  the  strain, 
That  offers  peace  to  one, 

Whom  words  shall  never  cheat  again— 
Whom  words  have  led  undone! 


124  Stanzas  to  Ida. 


XI. 

Give  me,  if  comfort  thou  would'st  giv«55 

Dull  spirit,  from  thy  store — 
Again,  in  innocence,  to  live, 

My  hours  of  childhood  o'er — 
Take  from  me  sight,  and  sense,  and  speech, 

All  beings  that  have  breath, 
What  I  have  ever  learnt,  untcach — 

Ay,  spirit — give  me  death! 


TO  THE  SAME. 


I 
Dear  phantom  of  my  midnight  hour, 

That  haunt'st  my  couch,  and  fill's!  my  sleep, 
With  hopes,  that  long  have  lost  their  pow'r, 

And  love,  whose  buried  form,  I  weep! 
Before  my  eye  thou  Btand'st  alone. 

And  on  my  soul  thy  looks  arise, 
So  strong,  I  sometimes  think,  I've  flown, 

To  join  thee,  in  thy  native  skies; 
But,  that  amidst  those  thoughts  of  heav'n, 

The  tear  has  stolen  into  my  eye. 
And  I  have  thus  been  coldly  driven, 

Back  to  the  earth,  I  cannot  fly! 

II. 

Sweet  spirit,  when  that  earth  is  still, 

And  all  the  busy  hum  of  men 
Is  hush'd  in  slumber,  dost  thou  fill 

My  chamber,  with  thy  presence,  then? 
Tell  me,  yet  tell  me  not,  I  dream — 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  that  thou  art  near, 
16 


126  Stanzas  to  Ida. 

And  that  my  hours  of  watching  teem, 
With  converse,  once,  and  still  so  dear: — 

Let  me  still  think,  as  I  have  thought, 
That  thou  sit'st  by  my  couch  at  night, 

And  weav'st  the  visions,  kindly  wrought, 
To  soothe  my  heart,  to  bless  my  sight. 

III. 

Oh!  dearer,  spirit,  as  thou  ait, 

Thus  all  immortal,  (therefore  dead, 
Forever,  to  my  watchful  heart) — 

Than  all  the  living  world  thou'st  tied— 
The  love  thou'et  cherish'd,  caunot  d*«— - 

Alas!  that  broken  hearts  should  beat! 
While  Hope,  though  crush 'd  by  Memory, 

Builds  up  his  altar  of  deceit — 
Altho'  assured  thou  art  no  more, 

He  still  uproars  hia  grateful  shrine, 
And  vows,  that  on  that  dreamless  shore, 

Thy  heart  shall  meet  again  with  mine! 


TO  THE  SAME. 


I. 

To  thee,  howe'cr  in  early  days, 
I  struck  the  willing  notes  of  praise, 

Nor  grudged  the  grateful  strain, 
I  dare  not  now  attune  one  song, 
To  love,  remembered,  0!  how  long, 

Thro,  happiness  and  pain! 

II. 

Thine  old  dominion  o'er  my  heart, 
Thou  null  mointain'Bt  in  every  part, 

As  firmly  as  before; 

Yet,  ah!  the  dream  of  hope  which  came, 
Of  old,  to  warm  it  into  flame, 

Shall  never  warm  it  more! 

i 

III. 

Should  not  the  dream,  the  fear,  the  pain, ' 
The  dread  of  love's  unhappy  reign, 

Be  o'ei4,  when  Hope  has  n>d; 
When  thou  art  lost  with  all  the  charm?, 


128  Stanzas  to  Ida. 

That  wooed  me  to  thy  snowy  ar 
And  memory  lives  instead! 


IV. 

Alas!  my  destiny,  is  still 

A  greater  tyrant  than  my  will, 

Since  love  remains  alor.e — 
And  o'er  my  heart,  and  in  my  brain, 
Exerts  a  wild  and  weary  reign, 

And  will  not  now  begone. 

V. 

Fond  wretch!  that  like  a  pilgrim, 
Return'd  in  age  from  foreign  lands, 

Within  his  ruin'd  dome; 
And  stirs  the  ashes  with  his  cane, 
In  hope  to  find,  once  more  the  fane, 

That  mark'dhis  childhood's  home! 

VI. 

A  greater  luin  even  than  they, 
For  none  of  those,  of  yesterday, 

Who  circled  him  around, 
Are  there,  to  greet  him  with  a  tear, 
And  say,  his  heart  is  buried,  where 

Yori  hillock  breaks  the  ground! 


Stanzas  to  Ida  129 

VII. 

Thus  love  within  my  lonely  heart, 
Stirs  the  sad  ruins  in  each  part, 

And  from  his  search,  discerns — 
That  Hope  is  buried  long,  and  cold — 
What  truth  and  time,  too  late,  unfold, 

And  lore,  too  early,  learns t 


STAWZAS. 


1. 

Cold,  in  its  solitary  cell, 

My  heart  reposes,  lapt  in  tears; 
Or,  rises,  for  awhile,  to  tell 

How  slow,  the  chain  of  being,  wears; 
Impatient  of  the  long  delay, 

And  fill'd  with  deep  and  restless  thirst, 
Why  does  it  linger  thus  a>yay, 

Nor  spurn  the  chain  at  once,  and  burst. 
Thus  fro/.en  in  its  onward  course, 

And  chilPd  with  early,  fatal  blight, 
Even  love's  own  power,  hath  lost  its  force, 

And  beauty,  were  a  shade  to  sight. 

•    ii. 

To  be,  is  not  a  pain  so  deep, 
But  being  thus! — and  not  to  be, 

Conies  on  me,  with  a  snail-like  creep, 
That  must  not  cine  be  taught  by  mo! 

Ah  would  it  were,  that  we  could  urge 


Stanzas.  131 

The  stern  and  tedious  time  along, 
As  barks,  upon  the  restless  surge, 

Driven,  with  a  tide,  unmatched,  and  strong. 
Oh,  not  for  me,  the  crime  in  thought — 

Yet  'twere  a  boon  I  ma/  not  fear — 
'Twere  suie,  that  howsoe'er  unsought, 

Death  were  not  shrunk  from,  were  he  nearl 


TO  THTRZA. 


I. 
Forgive  me,  if  my  looks  are  sad, 

When  them  art  free  from  aught  like  wo, 
I  would  be,  if  I  could  be  glad, 

And  thou,  alone,  can'st  make  me  so. 

II. 

Lot  but  thy  cheek  be  pale  awhile, 

And  dim  thine  eye,  and  cloud  thy  mien, 

And  let  thy  lip  forbear  to  smile, 
And  be  as 'sad,  as  I  have  been! 


SONNETS.* 

Come  down,  ye  dark  brow'd  ministers  of  thought, 

Ye  that  are  of  the  mountains,  and  do  tend 
Upon  the  morning,  when  with  clouds  overwrought, 

Her  brow  d*th  blacken  in  the  storms,  tht't  blend, 
With  her  strong  pinions — lifting  her  along, 

From  her  screner  beauties,  into  gloom. 
Descend,  ye  dark  indwellers  with  the  strong, 
Fe  of  the  magic  mystery  and  song, 

Whose  voice  is  on  the  ice-crags  of  the  Swiss, 
Where  Freedom  built  her  aerie,  and  the  bloom 
Of  her  untramrnell'd  freshness,  sent  abroad 
Life  on  the  nations,  till  they  ownM  the  God! 

There  is  a  spirit  that  belong!  to  this — 
Him  of  the  lyre  and  spell,  that  worships  ye  unaw'd! 

*Under  thu  bead,  will  b«  found  aotne  two  or  three  piece* 
in  the  dramatic  blank,  belonging,  originally  to  a  couple  of 
Tragedies,  which  in  my  twenty  hrst  year,  I  committed  to  the 
flames.  How  the  passages  quoted,  were  preserved  from  the 
fate  of  their  companions,  1  am  unable  to  say.  They  fell,  at 
a  later  period,  under  my  view,  and  with  some  little  altera 
tions,  are  DOW  published. 

17 


Sonnets. 

Oh!  sable-vested  Night!  how  dost  thou  bring 
Strange  fancies  to  my  soul — peopling  the  hour 
Of  vacancy  anu  midnight)  with  a  pow'r 
Of  mystery  and  thought,  to  which  I  cling, 
With  an  enthusiast's  worship,  and  my  heart 
Drinks  in  the  enchantment  of  thy  solemn  spells, 
'Till  I  become,  of  thy  own  world,  a  part — 
And  all  my  thought,  at  reason's  rule  rebels. 
Each  sound  that  only  jars  the  Zephyr's  pinion, 
To  me,  has  something,  in  that  strange,  sweet  time, 
Wrought  by  some  minstrel-god,  in  his  dominion 
Of  spell  and  song,  and  fresh,  and  morning  clime— 
And  when  I  wake,  my  cheek  and  eye's  dim  light, 
Proclaim,  \  have  been  wandering  all  the  night! 

Can  I  not  lay  me  down,  at  once,  and  die? — 
Oh!  there  is  peace  within  the  quiet  grave! 

No  hopes  to  cheat,  no  aspirations  high, 
No  heart  to  throb,  no  unguish'd  brain  to  rave — 

(  shall  not  shudder  at  the  approaching  ill, 
As  the  young  leaf,  which  doth  anticipate, 
The  corning  of  the  cold,  which  is  its  fate, 

\nd  shrinks,  without  a  murmur,  to  its  will. 

Dreams  shall  not  win  me  unto  happiness, 

To  crush  me,  when  I  waken  up,  the  more; — 
Nor  shall  the  visions,  that  once  came,  to  bless, 
Hear  different  features,then  from  what  they  wow; 


Sonnets.  135 

The  breeze  may  whistle  o'er  my  grave,  in  v§in, 
I  must  feel  pleasure,  when  removed  from  pain. 

Thou  wilt  remark  my  fate,  when  I  am  dead— - 
Let  not  fools  scoff  above  me,  and  proclaim. 
That  I  had,  vainly,  struggled  after  fame, 

'Till  tho  good  oil  of  my  young  life  was  shed; 

And  1  became  a  mockery,  and  fell 

Into  the  yellow  leaf,  before  my  fime;— 
A  sacrr^e,  even  in  my  earliest  prime, 

To  that,  which  thir.n'd  the  heav'os,  and  peopled  bell! 

I  feel  my  spirit  fed  upon  my  £irir., 

As  a  disease  within  me,  that  still  grows, 
As  I  incline  unto  my  last  repose, 

A  vulturous,  and  all  undying  worm — 

Let  fools  not  mock  me,  when  I  am  no  more — 

And  yet — I  ask  no  friendship,  to  deplore! 

Ambition  owns  no  friend — yet  be  tliou  tnine— 
I  have  not  much  to  win  thcc,  yet  if  song, 
However  humble,  may  a  name  prolong,. 

My  lay  shall  seek  to  give  a  life  to  thine! 

Let  this  reward  thee  for  thy  kindly  thought— 
'Tis  all  I  ask  of  thee — thus,  when  my  yearF 

Are  ripen'd  to  their  full,  or  early  wrought, 
To  a  short  term  of  being,  and  ray  tears, 

Haply  for  me,  are  staid — and  1,  at  rest, 


136  Sonnets. 

Think  of  me  kindly — when  men  utter  things, 
Which  wrong  my  name  and  to  it  darkly  clings, 
Shadowing  its  purity— do  thou  attest, 
Mine  eye  was  on  the  sun — I  could  not  bend 
To  the  dull  clouds,  when  I  might  still  ascend! 

To-morrow,  I  shall  have  no  charge  in  life — 
The  fair  sky  shall  wane  from  me — the  bright  sun 
Shall  lend  no  heat  to  cheer  me — and  the  breeze, 
That  comes  so  winningly  about  me  now, 
Shall  only  stir  the  long  grass  on  my  grave. 
The  moon  will  rest  upon  me,  in  her  walks, 
And  I,  that  loved  to  watch  her,  will  not  Bee, 
One  glance  of  the  sweet  picture  of  her  smile. 

To-morrow — let  me  tell  it  thee  to  day — 
Take  this  small  token,  to  the  gaze  of  her 
Whose  name  thou  here  behold'st.     I've  written  on't 
Some  magical  lines.     Do  thou  observe  the  face 
With  which  she  reads  them — and  if  she  shed  no  tear, 
It  will  be  well,  thou  canst  not  tell  me  so! 

The  barque  is  ready,  for  your  carriage  hence, 
My  friend — and  you  are  now  about  to  tread 
The  English  shore  aga  n.     Alas!  I  sigh, 
When  aught  diverts  my  thought  to  my  own  landi 
For  in  my  heart  a  labor  lies  conceai'd. 


Sonnets.  137 

That  is  not  the  less  irksome.     I've  had  dreams, 
Eustace — and,  tho'  I  would  not  be  a  boy, 
They  've  had  much  weight  upon  me,  and  I  feel 
A  strong  forecast,  that  I  shall  never  more, 
Be,  on  the  English  shore,  a  visitor. 
I  have  a  sister  Eustace,  you  will  find 
At  Sheffield— bid  her  be  of  cheer,  I  pray, 
For  I  am  well.     Be  sure  and  send  her  this— 
'Tis  a  small  token,  but  to  her  enough — 
Since,  'tis  the  giver's  thought,  and  not  his  gift) 
The  token  carries  with  it.     Be  her  friend, 
As  you  have  been  her  brother's — he,  I  feel, 
Will  need  nor  hate,  nor  friendship  from  you  more. 

Ay,  I  have  heard  enough — 

Ye  men  of  Rome,  yet  not  as  Rome  has  been! 

I've  heard  enough — ye  cannot  tell  me  more, 

In  all  your  volubility  of  Hpecch, 

Were  your  time  lengthen'd  to  eternity! 

Te  would  depose  Manilius! — do  it  then, 

Ye  dogs,  and  leap  into  his  state,  at  once, 

And  growl  and  battle  with  yourselves,  for  bones, 

That  dogs  have  pluck'd  before — ye  Jackal  troops, 

That  have  a  nose  for  carrion,  find  can  scent 

Your  bruit  age  o'er  the  Tiber,  at  its  swell. 

I'll  hear  no  more  from  ye— ye  are  too  foul, 
And  taint  mjr  garden  air:  now  get  ye  gone— 


138  Sonnets. 

Depose  Manilius,  send  him  into  exile — 
Tell  him  to  shake  the  dust  from  off  hi*  feel, 
Nor  curse  ye  all,  'twere  waste  of  honest  breath, 
And  like  the  holy  blood,  so  often  shed, 
TVere  less  than  thrown  away,  on  thankless  Rome 

Last  night,  the  moon  shone  suddenly  in  streams 
Upon  my  pillow,  and  my  littlo  child, 
IV ho  lay,  like  Innocence,  upon  my  arm, 
Turn'd,  discontentedly,  beneath  the  glare, 
And  her  sweet  violet  eye-lids,  half  unclosed— 
'Till  I,  with  cautious  hand,  removed  her  face, 
And  press'd  her  to  my  uoaoni,  and  she  sunk, 
Into  a  breathing  slumber — but  her  voice, 
As  if  her  sense  were  conscious  of  my  care, 
Whispered  most  audibly,  yet  faintly  too, 
'Father' — in  her  half  broken  modes  of  speech! 

Kind  spirits!  but  it  was  the  sweetest  sound, 
That  ever  took  my  sad  heart  by  surprise — 
And,  (ho'  ashamed  of  such  unmanliness, 
I  felt  a  lurking  weakness  in  my  eye, 
And  press M  her  closer  to  my  breast  again. 

It  was  a  picture  of  much  loveliness— 
A  picture,  men  would  love  to  look  upon, 
Tho'  seldom  so  permitted.     A  sweet  child, 
That  laughM  in  the  possession  of  his  prize, 


Sonnets.  139 

Lay  in  its  mother's  firms,  nnd  drew  its  milk, 
And  nutriment,  nnd  life,  from  a  half  hid, 
And  half  revcal'd,  and  delicate,  white  rcund, 
That  peom'd  an  orb  of  purity  and  peace! 
Its  little  lip,  and  full  and  glowing  cheek 
Were  of  one  colour — rich  and  young  and  fresh— 
And  only  such,  are  heautiful!     Its  cyo 
Glanced  archly  on  its  property — the  Imp, 
As  if  it  kn«*w  such  things  were  not  for  all! 
And  then  it  playfully  upturned  the  drexs, 
And  pcep'd  beneath,  and  with  its  little  hand*, 
Possess'd  itself  of  all,  and  placed  its  head 
Upon  its  natural  pillow,  and  look'd  up 
In  that  sweet  mother's  face,  and  smiled  with  jojr, 
And  knew  not,  hippy  Ignorant!  the  tears 
Upon  that  mother's  cheek,  for  it,  were  shed! 

My  child,  my  beautiful  child,  when  I  am  gone, 
Strangers  and  time,  will  have  untaught  thee  all, 
Thy  father's  love;  ere  thou  wilt  well  hare  known 
Thou  had'st  a  father,  tho'  hia  name  thou'lt  call — 
And  I  shall  leave  behind  me,  nought,  that  may 
Teach  thee  thy  loss,  unless  it  be  my  song — 
And  that,  perchance,  will  scarcely  linger  long, 
To  keep  my  memory  coupled  with  my  lay ! 
Sad  lay!  invoked  in  sorrow,  tuned  by  wrong, 
Harsh  and  unmusical,  yet  sadly  deep— 


140  Sonnets. 

Such   iotes  as  tempests  waken,  when  they  sweep 
O'ei   wind-harps,  with  a  pinion  swift  and  strong! 
Breaking  perchance,  each  string,  yet  lifting  high, 
A  dying  shriek  of  mournful  melody. 

1  saw  it  in  my  dream.     O !  could  !  task 
My  sense  again  to  slumber,  nor  awake 
So  long  as  the  fair  vision  were  in  sight. — 
I  will  not  do  it  so  much  wrong,  to  make 
My  rude  words,  show  the  picture  thou  dost  ask; 
But  I  should  feel  it  poorly,  if  delight 
Be  only  in  my  feature — for  I  feel, 
From  the  devoted  counsels  of  my  heart, 
That  I  should  look  enjoyment,  nor  appeal 
To  low  discourse  of  language,  to  bepaint 
My  morning  vision  of  calm  happiness: — 
That  dream,  which  it  would  madden,  to  reveal, 
And  which  even  song  would  render  spiritless — 
It  was  such  deep,  such  fine,  heart-touching  ten 
derness. 

Thou  hast  enamor'd  me  of  woodland  scenes, 
Good  shepherd,  for  thou  telPst  them  with  i  ~    ir 
That  might  have  won  a  wilder  thought  <       ar, 
Than  his,  who  sits  beside  thee,  while  he  gleans 
Thy  secret  from  thee,  of  sweet  happiness- 
Inborn  content,  and  nuiat  humbleness— 


Sonnets.  141 

That  cannot  be  overthrown  by  rising  high, 

And  so  nttrncteth  not  the  gaze  of  envious  eye, 

Thy  blessings  are  of  that  serener  kind, 

Which,  as  they  call  no  passions  forth,  must  bo 

Only  the  lighter  curl  that  breaks  the  sea 

Into  a  pleasant  murmur — no  rough  wind 

Is  there,  to  rouse  the  sleeping  ocean's  form, 

And  call  the  whirlwind  forth,  and  usher  in  the  storm. 

Ah!  me,  that  sleeping^  like  Endymion, 
Upon  a  gentle  hill-slope,  flow'r-o'erstrewn, 
I  could  be  laid,  to  wait  the  coming  moon, 
And  her  sweet  smile,  as  a  rich  garment,  don. 
Let  the  winds  be  around  me — and  the  dell, 
That  breaks  into  the  valley,  catch  the  sound, 
And  with  its  many  voices,  send  around 
Aerial  music,  till  the  wizard  spell 
Awake  the  night-nymphs  to  attend  my  sleep — 
And  she,  my  mistress,  from  her  ocean  cell, 
Arise  on  the  blue  mountains,  with  a  swell 
Of  those  sweet  noioes  from  the  caverns  deep, 
Wherein  the  mermaiden  and  mermen  dwell— 
Then,  from  my  bruised  couch  of  hill-flow'rs,  lei 
me  leap. 

Moonlight  is  down  among  the  pleasant  hills, 
And  looking  on  the  waters — let  me  go — 
18 


142  Sonnets. 

I  would  not  seek  my  couch,  while  such  a  show 
Of  beauty,  all  the  free  empyreal,  fills — 
The  city  is  behind  me — it  w  bright, 
So  liberal  and  and  so  lavish  is  the  night, 
As  conscious  of  he'  riches,  she  bestows 
Her  wealth  in  wide  profusion,  where  she  goes — 
Downwards,  the  shadows  of  the  houses,  cast, 
Are  sick,  with  the  gay  loveliness  of  night, 
And  as  her  living  beams  arc  rushing  past, 
How  do  they  shrink  before  her  fairy  light. 
Let  me  go  forth — for  this  must  be  the  hour, 
IV hen  gentle  spirits  walk,  and  fairy  forms  have 
pow'r. 

Sweetness,  and  gamesome  images,  surround 
Thy  rest,  young  pilgrim! — pleasant  breezes  come, 
And  bear  the  odors  of  the  blossoming  ground, 
And  flap  their  wings  above  thy  cheek's  rich  bloom! 
And,  O!  that  life  may  glide  away  with  thee, 
In  infantile  enjoyments! — while  I  pray, 
Above  thy  baby-couch,  that  thcu  may'st  be 
Guarded  by  angels,  innocent  as  they, 
I  would  deny  thee  all  the  hopes  that  crowd 
O'er  childhood's  pranking  hours.    Thou  ohouM'st 

not  dream 
Of  aught   in   store,    where  childhood   could  be 

proud — 


Sonnets.  148 

Nor,  should  deceitful  fancy  lend  one  beam, 
To  dazzle  thee  in  the  far  coming  years, 
IV hen  life  may  be  all  bitterness  and  tears. 

Come,  sit  thee  down  beside  me — I  would  rest, 
Upon  this  bed  of  sedge — the  rivulet  near, 
Meanwhile,  will  send  up  to  the  watchful  ear, 
Some  gentle  murmurs,  like  a  song,  represt, 
By  tears  of  the  sad  heart  that  pours  it  out! — 
I  do  remember,  it  is  now  about 

A  score  of  summers,  since  I  laid  me  down, 
Beside  this  little  streamlet,  as  I  left 

The  noise  and  the  confusion  of  yon  town^ 
To  which  1  now  return — of  wealth,  bereft, 
But  visions,  full  and  flowing,  yet  to  come; — 
My  heart  was  glowing  then  in  ptimal  bloom — 
This  rivulet,  glided  on,  as  it  doth  now — 
Yet — mark  the  life  of  changes  on  my  brow! 

The  spirits  that  do  dress  the  flow'fs  with  dew, 
And  trip  it,  'neath  the  moon,  upon  the  green, 
Have  been  with  me,  and  I  have  heard  and  seen 
Their  gossamer  forms— among  t»\em,  some  I  knew. 
Theirs,  were  most  pleasant  duties,  for  they  crept 
Beside  me,  as  upon  my  couch,  I  slept, 
And  built  fair  images  to  glad  my  sight — 
Then,  with  tweet  songs,  they  hush'd  me  to  repose , 


144  Sonnets. 

For  I  had  partly  waken'd,  'neath  the  light 
Of  a  rich  vision — which,  I  could  not  close 
My  eyes,  for  looking  on ;  until  they  won 
The  slumber,  I  had  frighted,  hack  upon 
My  heavy  lids,  and  so  I  past  the  night — 
Ah!  me,  I  would  that  this  long  day  were  done. 

I  think,  good  shepherd,  you  did  dream  of  this — 
Our  fancies  are  most  frolicsome,  and  oft 
They  bear  our  weakened  images  aloft, 
Where  they  do  lose  themselves  in  very  bliss. 
Beshrew  me,  but  it  is  a  pleasant  spot, 
For  fairies  to  make  merry  on,  untill 
The  steeple's  clock,  from  yonder  grey  brow'd  hill, 
Doth  dissipate  their  airy  sports,  I  wot: — 
Yet,  'till  the  dawning,  they  may  brush  the  dew, 
And  it  may  be,  perchance,  in  day-light  too, 
Albeit  we  see  them  not — the  light  of  day, 
Perchance,  may  take  their  lesser  light  away, 
As  the  stars  fade,  when  the  young  moon  is  fair, 
And  yet,  wo  know,  they  still  are  shining  there! 


FAREWELL  TO  IDA/ 


I. 

Farewell,  Farewell!  the  mournful  tie, 

That  bound  so  lonp,  is  broke  at  last; 
And  nought  is  left  me  but  to  die — 

Or  live,  and  bear  alone,  the  blast. 
And  either  fate  'twere  death  to  gam, 

Since  from  this  exile  never  free: — 
Ah!  death  itself,  were  less  than  pain, 

Since  life  has  torn  me  thus  from  thee! 

II. 

The  words  of  comfort,  they  bestow — 

How  worse  than  idle  to  my  ear! 
Since  I  must  feel,  where'er  I  go, 

That  I  have  more  to  hope,  than  fear! 
The  worst  is  known,  and  all  the  rest, 

Go  where  I  will,  I  may  not  fly — 
For  life  assures  my  lonely  breast, 

That  all  that's  left  me,  is  to  die. 


146  Farewell  to  Ida. 

III. 

The  truth  too  well  assur'd — once  known — 

I  might  confide  in  winds  and  waves; 
And  dream  that  Hope's  not  wholly  gone, 

And  peace,  not  only  in  our  graves. 
This  idle  word,  even  this,  dear  love, 

'T  were  less  than  kind,  should  reach  thy  heart- 
Alas!  our  tears  can  only  prove, 

He  meet,  and  have  but  met,  to  part. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1,  PAGE  7. 
"the  Gothic  Roderick's  reign." 

Roderick,  b\  Historians,  termed  the  last  or  the  Goths; 
»;e  Dr.  Southey's  Poem  on  the  subject.  The  fate  of  Rod 
erick  has  never  been  positively  known.  He  is  supposed 
to  have  been  drowned  in  his  flight  from  the  field  of  Xeres  de 
la  Frontera,  when  the  Moors  made  the  conquest  of  his  high 
ly  romantic  country. 

NOTE  2,  PAGE  7. 
"Her  own  base  son,'1  Ifc. 

Julian,  the  father  of  the  Spanish  Helena,  Cava,  or  as  she 
is  ?ometimes  called  by  the  Moorish  Historians,  Florindt. 
There  is  no  country  so  rich  in  material  for  Poetry  and  the 
Drama,  as  old  Spain,  at  the  period  to  which  we  refer,  and 
after  No  country,  in  the  details  of  whose  history,  so  much 
of  genuine  romance  may  be  *aid  to  mingle — we  wonder  the 
field  should  be  BO  little  explored. 

NOTE  3,  PAGE  8. 

"A  beacon  light  to  death  and  flame." 
There  is  something  even  ludicrous  in  the  strange  union, 
which  the  Spanish  adventurers  in  Mexico,  contrived  to  make 
of  religious  devotion  and  enthusiasm,,  and  their  o^n  blood 
thirsty  and  ambitious  project*.  The  banner  of  Cortes,  ac 
cording  to  Robertson,  whose  work,  by  the  way,  has  all  thfi 
merit  of  the  romance,  added  to  the  correctness  and  generrl 
truth  of  the  history,  had  upon  it  a  large  cross,  with  tliis  i  i- 
•cription,  "Let  us  follow  the  cross,  for  under  this  sign  shall 
w«  conquer."  The  "Inhoc  siqno  vince*"  of  Cons  amiue, 
may  be  forgiven,  when  we  learn  the  character  of  the  Chris- 


148  Able*. 

tian  Pagan; but  iruly.it  would  be  difficult  to  find,  in  the  whole 
annals  of  audacity,  a  similar  instance  of  impudence.  The 
finger  of  devotion  guiding  to  blood  shed  and  murder. 

NOTE  4,  PACK  9. 
Guatimozin. 

This  brave  Indian,  appears  in  all  the  characteristics  of  a 
hero  of  Romance,  fully  worthy  of  the  middle  ages.  AAer 
warring  against  Cortes,  with  all  the  undeviating  firmness, 
joined  to  the  experience  of  the  veteran,  we  find  him,  at  all 
times  calm, dignified  and  manly ;  neither  too  much  exhilarated 
when  crowned  with  conquest,  nor  prostrated  by  the  reverses, 
of  defeat.  The  following  passage  from  Robertson,  may 
show  this: — "When  conducted  to  Cortes,  he  appealed,  nei 
ther  with  the  sullen  fierceness  of  a  barbarian,  nor  with  tho 
dejection  of  a  suppliant.  "I  have  done,"  said  he,  "what 
became  a  monarch.  I  have  defended  my  people  to  tho  la  -t 
extremity.  Nothing  now  remains  but  to  die.  Take  this 
dagger,"  laying  his  hand  on  ono  which  Cortes  wore,  "plant 
it  in  my  breast,  and  put  an  end  to  a  life  which  can  no  longer 
be  of  use."  Vol.  ii.  p.  48,  49. 

NOTE  5,  PAGE  9. 
"  Childrtn  of  the.  bright  sun." 

The  sun  has  been  usually  the  lint  object  of  worship  among 
all  barbarous  nations,  as  the  supposed,  and  only  visible 
source  of  life,  light,  heat,  &c.— but  the  Mexicans  and  Peru 
vians  went  still  further  and  claimed  to  bo  immediately  de 
scended  from  it.  Their  altars,  dedicated  to  its  worship,  were 
never  honored  with  any  thing  less  worthy  than  human  beings. 

NOTE  6,  PAGE  9. 

"Aof  even  the  rhancc  remains  to  flit  t — 

But  that  is  not  a  thought  for  thte." 
Amidst  vicissitudes  and  reverses  that  would  have  crushed 
any  humbler  spirit,  the  energies  of  Cortes,  never  for  a  single 
moment  forsook  him.  Within  an  enemy's  walls,  iurround- 
e<l  by  men  of  his  own  nation,  jealous  of  his  power,  and  por- 
tually  thwarting  him  by  machinations  and  treasons— he  rose 
superior  to  circumstances,  and  seemed  invigorated  by  every 
overthrow. 


Notes.  149 

NOTE  7,  PAGE  9. 
-"TTieu    God  »/ war,"  IfC. 

The  fearful  picture  given  by  Robertson,  cannot  be  surpass 
ed  in  licuon.  "On  a  signal  given,  iho  priest  in  the  principal 
temple  struck  the  great  drum  con^ecra'cd  to  the  God  of  war. 
No  sooner  did  tho  Mexicans  hear  "s  doleful  sound,  calculat 
ed  .o  inspire  (hem  with  contempt  of  death  and  enthusiastic 
ardor,  than  they  ru?hcd  upon  tho  enemy  with  frantic  rage, 
&c."  and  again,  after  their  \ictory,  they  v tho  Spaniards) 
found  that  forty  of  their  fellow -soldiers  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy,  he  proceeds:--"  Tho  approach  of  tho 
night,  though  it  delivered  the  dejected  Spaniards  from  the 
attacks  of  tho  enemy,  ushered  in,  what  wag  hardly  less  griev 
ous,  tho  noi*1  of  their  barbarous  triumph,  and  of  the  horrid 
festivals  with  which  they  celebrated  their  victory.  E-ery 
quarter  of  the  city  was  illuminated,  the  great  temple  shono 
with  such  peculiar  splendor,  that  the  Spaniards  could  plain 
ly  t*co  the  people  in  motion,  und  the  priests  busy  in  hastening 
the  preparations  for  the  death  of  the  prisoners.  Through 
the  gloom,  they  fancied  that  'hey  discerned  their  compan 
ions  b^  the  whiteness  of  their  *  i:is,as  they  were  stript  nai\ed, 
and  compelled  to  d.ince  before  the  image  of  the  God  to 
whom  they  were  otlered  They  hdvrd  tho  shrieks  of  those 
who  were  sacrificed,  and  thought  that  thev  could  distinguish 
tach  unhappy  victim  by  tfic  well-  known  sound  of  his  voice." 

NOTE  8,  PAGE  19. 
*'Put  firt  unto  tht  brijfantinc." 

The  fleet  with  which  Cones  sailed  for  New  Spain,  was 
destroyed  by  his  orders,  but  at  a  much  earlier  period  than 
that  to  which  tho  Poem  has  reference.  The  crisis,  of  ho 
Poem,  however,  requiring  i*  where  it  is,  I  have  used  tho 
license  commonly  conceded  to  the  writers  of  fiction,  by 
which  History  may  be  pcrvcned  at  pleasure.  After  rating 
the  intrigues  by  which  Cortes  prevailed  on  his  men,  to  idopt 
this  measure,  (tho  dcstruc'ion  of,ihe  fleet,  Robertson  pro 
ceeds  to  say — "Thus,  from  an  effort  of  magnanimity,  to 
which  there  is  nothing  parallel  in  history,  five  hundred  men 
voluntarily  consented  to  be  shut  up  in  a  hostile  countn  ,  filled 
with  powerful  and  unknown  na'ions;  and  having  pred -i-icd 
every  means  of  escape,  left  themselves  without  nny  resource, 


150  Notes. 

Inn  their  own  valor  and  perseverance."     Hist.  Am.  vol  i. 
j>.  414. 

NOTE  9,  PACE  28. 
"JDw  /  rtpo»e  oil  flower*" 

According  to  the  Historian,  I  have  here  been  guilty  of  a 
much  greater  violation  of  the  fact  thai)  may  well  be  passed 
over.  Upow  the  final  conquest  of  Mexico,  and  before  Gua- 
timo/.in  had  yet  beco  made  prisoner,  he  ordered  all  of  his 
treasures,  knowing  them  to  be  the  principal  object  with  the 
.Spaniards,  to  be  thrown  into  the  lake.  This  it  was  neressa- 
iv  should  be  concealed.  It  was,  that  this  fact  .should  bo 
made  knowu,  that  the  royal  favorite,  oa  a  bed  of  coal*, 
turned  to  liis  monarch  an  appealing  eye,  who  sternly  replied 
— "Am  I  reposing  on  a  bed  of  flowers."  The  favorite  per 
severed  and  died.  In  the  text,  I  have  no  su  eh  reason  for 
perseverance,  for  Guatimo/in,  in  the  preceding  pages  has 
already  told  where  the  treasure  has  been  thrown,  and  his 
torture  can  only  be  considered  wanton,  or  meant  to  extort 
a  farther  coufei-sion,  us  to  any  residue  that  might  yet  bo 
found.  The  reader  is  at  liberty  to  believe  which  he  pleases. 

NOTE  10,  PAGE  U8. 
"Dark  Jtcapulco,  frowning;  to  the  sAy." 

Acapulco  is  a  mountain  in  Peru.  1  wanted  one  of  four  syl- 
nbles  in  Mexico,  and  applied  n  then-Jon;  to  one  of  the  many 
that  gird  the  plain  of  the  "Hiiih  City." 
NOTE  II,  PACK  44. 

"  Sftnin 

Valued  his  worth,  ami  with  /us  honor*  gave 
A'rgltct  and  nhante." 

The  hint  days  of  Cortes,  may  be  given  in  Robertson's  ovsa 
words: — "Disgusted  with  ill  suet  ess  to  which  he  had  not. 
been  accustomed,  and  weary  of  contending  with  adversaries 
to  whom  he  considered  it  as  a  disgrace  to  be  opposed,  lie 
once  more  (A.  D.  1540  sought  redress  in  his  native  country. 
But  his  reception  there  was  very  dillcroni  from  that  which 
gratitude,  and  even  decency,  ought  to  have  secured  for  r.itn. 
The  merit  of  his  ancient  exploits,  was  already,  in  a  gicut 


Motes.  151 

service  of  moment  was  now  expected  from  a  man  of  declin 
ing  year?',  and  who  began  to  be  unfortunate.  The  Emperor 
behaved  to  him  with  cold  civility;  his  ministers  treated  him, 
sometimes  with  neglect,  sometimes  with  insolence.  His 
'grievances  received  no  redress;  his  claims  were  urged  with 
out  effect;  and  after  several  years  spent  in  fruitless  applica 
tion  to  ministers  and  judges,  an  occupation  the  most  irksome 
and  mortifying  to  a  man  of  high  spirit,  who  had  moved  in  a 
sphere  where  he  was  more  accustomed  to  command  than  to 
solicit,  Cortes  ended  his  days  on  the  second  of  December 
ono  thousand  five  hundred  and  forty  soven,  in  the  sixty-se 
cond  year  of  hii  age. 


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